When It Alteration Finds
by Sarai332000
Summary: Marcus Cole has even more secrets than anyone knew. What did he do in the Earth-Minbari War and why is old history threatening to get him killed?
1. Default Chapter

DISCLAIMER: Babylon 5 belongs to JMS. I'm just playing. AUTHOR: Sarai PAIRING: Marcus/Neroon WARNING: m/m slash, violence RATING: R (eventually, PG-13 now)SPOILERS: Seasons 3 and 4 AUTHOR'S NOTE: This isn't my usual fandom, so please let me know if I messed anything up. I'll post the rest of this when I finish it, probably in six weeks or so, and can repost this part with any needed corrections then. SUMMARY: What if they had met before? TITLE: When it Alteration Finds  
  
Chapter One  
  
They called it Obsidian. It was originally designed as a joke; a computer virus cobbled together by a few students at the Academy in a childish competition to see who could make the more damaging program. It ended up being the only hope for a doomed world. Like humans who contracted a viral infection, most computers infested with a rogue program could eventually recover. Obsidian, however, was to a computer like cyanide was to a human. It wasn't a virus, it was a poison, from which any infected system could never be brought back; it turned every function as dark, black and cold as its namesake. It was the perfect weapon to end the horrifying war, but even a super weapon has a flaw. It has to be delivered.  
  
2248, the Ingata  
  
Neroon was usually content to carry out Branmer's orders unquestioningly. Even the more tedious ones, those involving the seemingly endless paperwork his position demanded, were often useful, and he had learned much of caste politics from replying to the communiqués regularly sent to his commanding officer. Indeed, he was pleased to take the responsibility off Branmer's shoulders, for although the war went well for their side, his Shi Alyt often seemed troubled. Why this should be so puzzled Neroon, but it was not his place to question, only to obey. And no one could fault Branmer's leadership. The Ingata had proven itself numerous times against the humans, and would soon do so again. It was scheduled to lead the final assault on Earth, now only weeks away, that Branmer had helped to plan. Still, this particular assignment he could have done without. Babysitting spoiled noble's sons was hardly the proper task for a warrior, and although he would never have allowed himself to vocalize his displeasure, he grumbled mentally as he made his way to the main landing bay.  
  
The shuttle carrying the scion of one of the Warrior Caste's oldest families--by all accounts, a thoroughly over bred, arrogant young man--was just landing. Neroon watched as some of the replacement crew for those lost in a recent suicide run by Earth Force ships stepped into the cavernous bay, their stiff postures giving evidence of the long transit time. Their shuttle had had a stopover for refueling several days before due to the length of the trip from Minbar, but for the last 40 hours, the passengers had been packed into the small conveyance with little opportunity to stretch tired muscles. Neroon scanned the fatigued looking crowd, but did not see the one he had been sent to meet.  
  
Of course, he only had an old, rather grainy vid capture to go by, as the young man had not gone through the usual warrior training program and been photographed and IDed like everyone else. Oh no, that would have been too much to expect for Tyamer's heir. The Moon Shield leader had not scrupled to keep his only child in luxury on their country estate, while the rest of the Warrior Caste's children were being assigned barracks in one of the communal training villages where they would spend the majority of their adolescence. Neroon thought Tyamer had done his son a disservice; yes, the training regimen was hard--and purposefully so, for how else could the Warrior Caste maintain its strength--but those years were invaluable for making friends and useful contacts for the future. Of course, he thought sardonically, perhaps Tyamer did not feel that his son, with all the power of the Moon Shields behind him, was in need of more common friendships. Or perhaps, he thought as he caught sight of a particularly bedraggled looking specimen, he didn't wish for others to know how useless his heir really was.  
  
"You are Sorval, family Kathu, of the Moon Shields?" Neroon's voice as he addressed the skinny youngster before him held a note of incredulity, for the boy was all but swaying on his feet. He'd have expected better self control, or pride at least, from the great man's son. Unless he had misidentified him. He looked about as the boy focused weary gray eyes on him, but the others had all been met by their respective section heads, and were in the process of being led away. Either this really was Sorval, or Tyamer had managed to come up with yet another way to postpone his son's introduction to active duty.  
  
"Yes," the boy dispelled that fear, at least, and held out an identity chip in a slightly shaking hand. Neroon took it, looking him over narrowly. By Valen, it was worse than he had thought. The child, for he hardly looked old enough to be called a man no matter what his records said, was skinny to the point of scrawniness and his eyes were red enough to make Neroon wonder if he was ill. That would explain why he seemed on the verge of collapse from a mere shuttle ride, although why command would send anyone, much less the coddled favorite of one of its leading voices, out when he was sick was a mystery.  
  
"You appear unwell." He hated to spoil the boy more than he doubtless already was, but Branmer was an old friend of Tyamer's and would skin Neroon alive if the brat was seriously ill and he did not catch it. "We can stop by the medical facility if you feel the necessity."  
  
"No!" The boy's eyes widened in what looked almost like panic. "That is," he drew himself up with something approaching correct posture for the first time. "No, sir, I do not."  
  
Neroon decided to take him at his word for the moment, particularly as he had no interest in spending half a day in the medical ward while that damned Tranus made his usual meticulous, time consuming examination, especially if all he was likely to say was that the whelp was tired and out of shape. The former should be taken care of by a brief rest; the latter, and Neroon had to suppress a smile at the thought, would be dealt with by Master Durhan in the trainee's gym. The brat had better have all his father's lauded skill; Durhan and Tyamer were old rivals, and Neroon doubted that his one time tutor planned to take it easy on the great man's son.  
  
"Come then," Neroon said curtly, and set a rapid pace out of the bay. He had many other duties requiring his attention, and resented any extra time spent showing Sorval to his rooms. He hoped the boy didn't assume that being met by the ship's first officer was a sign of things to come; Branmer was unlikely to play favorites, and Neroon certainly wasn't. It had always been tradition that section heads met their new arrivals, and since Sorval's duty shifts would be in the weapons division, Neroon was his immediate superior. Luckily, there were a number of junior officers who would be overseeing his instruction.  
  
The boy caught up his traveling pack and stumbled down the corridor after him. So much for stealth training, Neroon thought, half amused and half horrified as the gangly creature tripped over his own feet more than once before they reached his assigned rooms. Usually, a newly made officer would have had a bunkmate as, even on a ship the size of the Ingata, space was at a premium. Neroon knew for a fact that Branmer had made no alternate plans for the young noble shuffling gracelessly behind him, but he nonetheless had his own room for the moment. Better that he understand that that would soon change.  
  
"You will have a roommate after our next supply run; we are not yet at full compliment." The young man nodded, seemingly too tired to even speak. Neroon would have berated him for his lack of discipline, but did not want to waste even more time on him. Let others teach him respect; there would be many happy volunteers. "You have the next three duty shifts off; your orders are in your terminal." Neroon handed the boy a data crystal with his access codes for the ship's computers, then left. What a waste of over half an hour!  
  
Marcus saw the door slide efficiently closed after the big Minbari before he collapsed, panting, to the uncarpeted tiles. His body wanted nothing more than to black out for a day at least, and despite the fact that he was lying on the floor, the room felt like it was spinning wildly around him. How he'd managed to walk this far was beyond him; he strongly suspected that only the threat of an examination in the med lab had done it. He didn't expect to survive this mission, but being caught out within an hour of setting foot on board would have been pretty damn pathetic.  
  
After an indeterminate amount of time, the room's spinning slowed enough that he managed to crawl over to the computer and check his schedule. He did the time conversion and realized with profound relief that he had almost twenty one Earth hours, or a full Minbari day, before he was expected anywhere, and he set the computer to give him an alarm three hours before that time in case his internal clock was hopelessly screwed up. He stumbled into the bathroom and groggily checked his appearance in the tiny mirror. He was relieved to see that he looked passable except for the extreme redness of his eyes. There was little he could do about that, as they'd found out too late that the contacts his disguise required irritated the hell out of his eyes. They were nonetheless necessary since no one had ever seen a green eyed Minbari and, at any rate, Sorvals' vital stats were on record; his eyes, like those of many of his race, were gray.  
  
It was only, Marcus thought as he peeled off his hated costume, one of the many flaws in the damn thing's design. Still, considering how little time they'd had to construct it, he supposed he should be grateful that it was convincing, no matter how uncomfortable. None of the Minbari on the shuttle nor the officer who had met him had seemed to find anything wildly unusual about his appearance; he could only hope that would continue. Three weeks, he chanted his mantra as he began a sponge bath. Damn the Minbari and their weird ideas of bathing; God, what he wouldn't give for a shower!  
  
Marcus leaned against the sink when his exhausted muscles threatened to give way after he'd washed off two day's sweat from that sauna of a costume. He had had to resort to stims to stay awake on the shuttle, desperately afraid that, if he fell asleep, he might mumble something incriminating. "You have to remember, Marcus," the head of research at Intel had reminded him at least a dozen times. "Most people in undercover assignments give themselves away by something simple. They relax after a while and, without realizing it, their guard falls. Forget who you are and why you're there even for a second and it can lead to disaster!" It sounded paranoid to stay awake for almost two days, just because he was afraid of using English in his sleep, but paranoia was a healthy habit under the circumstances. "Always assume the worst," he'd been told. Marcus grimaced; that wasn't going to be a problem.  
  
He looked down at his hands, noticing that they were still trembling slightly from the stims, despite the fact that he'd stopped the shots 18 hours earlier for fear of overdosing. His body craved sleep like a parched desert seeks water but, before he could allow himself that luxury, he had to don the damned synthaskin costume again. No matter how much he hated it, sleeping without it wasn't a possibility. It took at least ten minutes to settle properly and, if there was a drill or other emergency, he'd never have time to get it on if someone came looking for him. He didn't think that was likely, but couldn't take the chance.  
  
Drying himself off thoroughly, he focused tired eyes on the pale visage and shaved cranium in the mirror as he reattached his Minbari face. He needed to shave again, especially his head as the little hairs beginning to pop out all over his scalp itched like mad, but he just didn't have the strength. Tomorrow, he promised himself, as the synthaskin flowed over his skin like quicksilver before settling into place and turning the chalky white that passed for a healthy Minbari complexion.  
  
The young man he was impersonating had been selected mainly because of his unusual isolation from the others of his caste. That made it unlikely that anyone was familiar enough with him to notice the variations in appearance that the costume couldn't duplicate. Marcus was a good three inches taller and about thirty pounds lighter than the real Sorval. The face he saw in the mirror, thanks to the synthaskin mask and attached bone crest, bore a resemblance to that of the furious young man captured with a Minbari transport some weeks before. Marcus seriously doubted, however, that the costume would fool anyone who had met him recently; synthaskin could only do so much, and there had been no time for surgery to remake Marcus' own features into something closer to the more delicate ones of the young Minbari. As it was, things like the size of his nose, always a bit too prominent for his liking, could not be hidden by the mask, and his profile therefore bore little resemblance to the man he was mimicking.  
  
Still, the telepaths who had scanned Sorval assured Marcus that the pride of his old father's heart hadn't been off the family estate for any length of time in years, and was not well known even within his own caste. That had not reassured Marcus much, however; he didn't know how much contact the man might have had with others that he hadn't bothered to tell his father about, nor how many images of the Moon Shield heir might be floating around. Three weeks, he reminded himself, pulling on pajamas but leaving off the padding he wore under his armor that attempted--without much success, he feared--to make him look like he had a typical Minbari frame. He had a bulky robe he could pull on in a second if needed, and the heavy pads were both stiff and very hot.  
  
Marcus leaned back against the slanted Minbari sleeping platform and tried to relax into rest, but the 45-degree angle ultimately defeated him. He moved the bedding to the floor and stretched out as much as possible in the tiny cabin, which left his feet jutting into the bathroom. He pulled up the blanket and ignored the Spartan surroundings. The room he'd carved out of part of a storage area back on Arisia in order to get some privacy from his younger brother hadn't been much larger.  
  
He expected to drift off immediately, but too many images crowded behind his eyes. It had been this way ever since the dump, as they inelegantly called it. It was an oddly appropriate word, for that was exactly what it had felt like; as if a huge weight had been dumped into his mind, weighing him down to the point of smothering him under someone else's memories. He hadn't expected to survive the process. The few who had tried it before him, except in cases of much smaller transfers, had died or gone mad; the doctors had told him that the suicide rating for his mission might well be fulfilled before he ever set foot on a Minbari vessel. Marcus hadn't much liked the odds, or the idea of having a whole phalanx of Psi Corps members accessing his brain to implant the information, but there had been no other choice. He'd always been good with languages, but no one could learn another tongue fluently in only two weeks, and besides the language there had been etiquette, history, philosophy, religion and fighting techniques-- a whole culture--that also had to be absorbed. Two years wouldn't have been enough if he'd had to study it all on his own; the revolutionary Psi Corps method had been the only way.  
  
Marcus doubted, however, that despite his resilience to the process, he had absorbed anywhere near enough to fool anyone for long. The language had seemed to stick best, possibly because, as an Earth Force Intelligence officer, he'd already attained a slight familiarity with it. But a great deal of the rest had not stayed with him. He could access pieces of Sorval's memories--faces, snatches of songs, images of Minbari cities, as well as some rather embarrassing sexual encounters that Marcus would rather they'd have left out--but much of it was too indistinct to allow him to make much sense of it. Not to mention that the doctors had warned him that even the language skills might fade with time. Information dumped into a mind instead of learned tended to be transitory, and Marcus had no idea what he would do if his command of the complicated Warrior Caste language suddenly started to fail him.  
  
Three weeks, he reminded himself; just survive that long. A rendezvous was planned for a large part of the Minbari fleet at that time, and Earth Force had intercepted transmissions that the final assault would begin shortly thereafter. All attempts to reach a settlement with the Minbari had failed, and no one had hopes of the war ending except in one of two ways. Either he would fail in his mission, and the fleet would destroy Earth, or he would succeed, and the nasty little computer poison he carried would cause the Minbari fleet to become dead in space, easy prey for the remnants of Earth Force.  
  
Of course, even if he was successful in uploading Obsidian and it actually worked with the Minbari computers--a long shot in most of his colleagues' expectations--and if it spread through the fleet via their communications system as planned, Minbar would still be in much better shape to wage a war than Earth. No one knew exactly how many ships they held in reserve, but Marcus doubted they were throwing all they had into the conflict; after all, their victories had come too easily for them to need to risk everything. The hope was that suffering a serious defeat might cause their leaders, who so far had refused to even receive Earth's ambassadors, to listen to offers of peace. The war had been little more than a military exercise for the Minbari so far, who had lost only a small percentage of the casualties inflicted on Earth Force and the colonies. But if their people learned what it was like to suffer large casualties, if their news services began reporting the hundreds of thousands of losses that were a regular feature of Earth's daily news, maybe they would put pressure on their leaders to come to terms.  
  
It was a lot of ifs, Marcus knew, but he'd discovered that it was easy to play the long odds when they are the only ones you have. Three weeks until the rendezvous; three weeks to somehow break into the top-level security files of this massive starship and upload the poison; three weeks until he, like the rest of the Ingata, became a target for the Earth fleet that was currently massing near Venus. For, even if his mission was successful, there was no hope of rescue. If he managed to somehow get off the ship before Obsidian caused the blast doors to close, turning it into a tomb, he'd be in a malfunctioning Minbari fighter in the midst of a slaughter. Best-case scenario, he had three weeks to live. It was the last thought he had before sleep finally claimed his restless mind.  
  
Chapter Two  
  
2261, Babylon 5  
  
Marcus idly finished his drink while he watched the two large Minbari warriors at a shadowy table near the seedy bar's farthest corner. They were in a Drazi bar in Brown sector that few of Babylon 5's inhabitants had heard of and even fewer patronized. It said something about the duo's business that they had found it at all. The place made no effort to advertise itself, since the pirates, smugglers, assassins for hire, arms dealers and narcotic pushers that made up 90% of its clientele preferred to have their privacy. They drank a lot, so the bar's owners, who also engaged in fair amount of shady dealings, went merrily along with their wishes. Watchers posted in nearby dark corners kept an eye out for security, and on the few occasions when a couple--for no security personnel patrolled Brown sector alone--wandered in, they saw nothing more suspect than a friendly game of cards. As soon as they left, of course, the wheeling and dealing resumed as usual.  
  
Marcus was not wearing his Ranger pin or brown and black uniform. The Rangers had once been a covert operation, but with Delenn's inauguration looming, it was no longer possible to keep to the dress code and still remain unnoticed. Marcus' current attire, a flashy black leather number that would have had most of his associates goggling if they ever saw him in it--reflected his pose as a Terran drug smuggler with a fast ship and a faster personal life. He had used the persona with good results before, but was rethinking the look. He fended off yet another proposition, this time from a Narn, and tried to adjust his gun belt to hide the assets shown off by the skin-tight trousers. He kept his attention on the two in the corner as he did so, however. Something was up; Marcus could feel it.  
  
He'd heard people make fun of Michael Garibaldi's assertions that he could sense whenever something was wrong on the station, but Marcus had never had difficulty believing him. He'd experienced that same indefinable sense of wrongness sometimes himself, and it always turned out badly when he ignored it. Like on Arisia, a little voice piped up at the back of his mind. He immediately cut it off; he didn't need distractions like that tonight.  
  
Both of the Minbari were Star Riders. Marcus had seen one of them lurking about Brown sector looking furtive and had followed him to the bar, where he had shortly been met by another. Most people wouldn't have been able to tell clan affiliation without being able to see the small symbols on their armor, but Marcus had picked them out easily. It was in the shape of their long, dark cloaks, cut from a template hundreds of years old that had been copied from one worn by their first clan leader. More obviously, it was in the peculiar mix of arrogance and elegance that no other clan ever quite managed, that calm conceit that said, we were first, and we are best. Oh, yes. They were Star Riders all right.  
  
That in itself would not have worried him, much less have made him miss an important meeting with an informant in order to watch them drink. Although the majority of Minbari on Babylon 5 were Religious Caste, due both to Delenn's position as ambassador and their slightly lesser xenophobia, Warrior Caste members did come and go occasionally, and Star Riders had certainly been there before. Neroon had even been there once, although his run in with Jeffrey Sinclair had taken place before Marcus' arrival. Only Neroon, Marcus had thought when Lennier told him about it, could have managed to provoke Valen himself into resorting to violence. Marcus completely understood Sinclair's exasperation, having often had reason to feel it himself.  
  
The two Minbari were now joined by a third, who, despite the low lighting that the bar's owners and frequenters preferred, kept his deep cowl up over his bone crest. Marcus ordered a refill, mainly to keep the bartender happy, and watched them out of the corner of his eye. There was no reason for him to be there, no cause to be concerned about what a handful of Star Riders were doing, but he couldn't help it. Every instinct he had said that trouble was brewing, and it didn't take much imagination to figure out what it was probably about. Delenn's inauguration as Entil' Zha was the only event taking place at the moment that he knew damned well would interest the Warrior Caste. What worried him was what they planned to do about it. He somehow doubted they were there to wish her well.  
  
The three spoke only briefly before rising to go. The bar was a good meeting point, but dangerous plotting would be better carried out in whatever rooms they'd managed to obtain. Marcus doubted that they'd logged in with security, as there were ways around that regardless of what Michael thought. Marcus would have told him about some of them, except that he occasionally used them himself. There were also plenty of rooms for hire that didn't appear on the station's official lists; Marcus assumed the trio was off to one, and he intended to follow after giving them a small head start. No one, not even someone trained as one of them, followed the Warrior Caste too closely and lived to tell about it.  
  
Marcus watched them head for the door, moving silently despite the weight of their armor and the fact that none were small men. Other patrons shifted out of their way, like small mammals taking to their holes when a hawk's shadow looms over head. The three were predators, and the other denizens of the establishment knew it.  
  
Right before they exited, the warriors passed under the small light over the entry portal. The sickly green beam illuminated the face of the mysterious third party for a split second before he was gone. That glimpse was all Marcus needed, however. He fell back against the bar and dizzily wondered what would happen to him if he passed out here. That he'd be robbed was certain, but he was fairly sure that some slightly more interesting things would also occur before his body was stuffed out an airlock or dumped in a little used corridor. He decided not to risk it, and left immediately, before the tiny dots swirling before his vision had a chance to gang up on him.  
  
He found an outlet vent for the air purification system nearby and let the cool breeze blow on him for a minute until he felt more himself. He didn't want to believe it; tried desperately to tell himself that he was hallucinating. He'd just been thinking about him, after all; surely his mind had played a trick. But the more he tried to talk himself out of it, the more certain he became: it had been Neroon. And if that was true, and if he was here for the obvious reason, Marcus decided that he knew one Ranger who needed to start making his will.  
  
Lennier was speaking so earnestly that Marcus didn't have the heart to stop him. Besides, it wasn't as if he could explain how he already knew everything the young priest was saying. Knew and had already decided how to deal with it. "Marcus, he is the best of the Warrior Caste." Lennier looked worried that his friend was about to get an unfortunate introduction to what an enraged Star Rider could do. Marcus toyed with telling the young innocent that he was well aware what Neroon was like when caught in a passion, but resisted temptation; he doubted that even his reputation for levity would cover up that remark. He had never told anyone of his work during the Earth-Minbari War, not even Sech Durhan when he met him again at the Ranger Training facility more than a decade after their first encounter. He had very good reason to keep the two parts of his life completely separate. Of course, that was likely to prove difficult shortly, when a major player from one era insisted on intruding into the other, but then, this was Neroon. He'd always posed a serious hazard to Marcus' peace of mind.

He sent Lennier off with glib assurances, smiling a little after his friend had gone. They wouldn't meet again, unless Lennier wanted to give him the information on Neroon's bolt hole personally, but that was just as well. Recently, he'd become a bit too fond of Delenn's young aide, and had almost forgotten his old teacher's caution to never become too relaxed with anyone. Danger lay down such a road, and trusting in anyone beside yourself led to disaster. Marcus had only made that mistake once, and had no intention of repeating it. No, better that it end now, as it should have then; better that his old nemesis finish what he'd started.

"So, you must be Neroon." Marcus knew that there was no way Neroon could possibly recognize him, no chance that he would connect the gawky, gray eyed scion of a noble Minbari house with the green eyed Ranger before him. Still, the hands that gripped his denn'bok were sweaty. Marcus wondered again, as he waited to be acknowledged, if he should have brought a different weapon, but it wasn't as if he could issue an ancient Minbari challenge using anything other than the traditional one. Changing pikes would also have been difficult; fine denn'boks were hard to come by even on Minbar, being handed down in families for generations, and were hardly available for purchase in the Zocalo. He supposed he could have asked Lennier for his, but what possible excuse could he have given? "Sorry old man, but you see, Neroon gave me this pike--been in his family 400 years, you know--as an engagement present, and I'm afraid he might recognize it." Perhaps not. He'd just have to make sure his opponent never had the chance to get a good look at the weapon. Marcus was loath to give it up anyway; he'd used the pike so long that it had become almost an extension of his hand, and he needed that advantage. Neroon, although he didn't realize it yet, already knew all Marcus' best moves. He should do, Marcus thought wryly; after all, I taught them to him.  
  
"You shouldn't get involved in things that don't concern you. My quarrel is with Delenn." Neroon's answer didn't surprise Marcus in the least. Most people would have mistaken it for kindness or courtesy--let the foolish Ranger walk away while he still could--but Marcus knew better. Neroon simply didn't want to waste time fighting an inferior warrior. He was essentially saying that Marcus wasn't good enough to bother killing. Despite his every caution to himself, the first words out of Neroon's mouth had managed to enrage him. Marcus held his temper, but only barely. "Then your quarrel is with me."  
  
"Do you have any idea who I am?" There it was: the familiar Star Rider pride, in all its overblown glory. As if all Rangers would of course be knowledgeable enough of the great Neroon to immediately recognize him, even in a dimly lit hole in the wall in Brown sector. Marcus gripped his denn'bok until part of the feeling left his fingers. He wanted to shout, "Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. I'm the man who saved your life once. I'm the one who you swore you'd love forever. I'm the one you betrayed." God, how he wished the Ingata had been turned to dust all those years ago, and he and Neroon along with it! Marcus managed to keep his outward calm, even though inwardly rage and pain more than a decade old filled his mouth with bitterness. "I do. The only way you will get to her is through me. I invoke Denn'sha."  
  
"To the death." Neroon looked amused. "During the war I killed fifty thousand of you. What's one more?" He moved immediately, but Marcus was prepared for the initial clash. It was powerful but lacked finesse, meant only to knock the presumptuous human out of the way so Neroon could get on with killing his real prey. The warrior wasn't taking him or his challenge seriously, not yet. Marcus doubted that he could defeat Neroon once he began putting some effort into his attack, but at the moment, the Star Rider was probably surprised that his opponent even knew how to hold a denn'bok properly. Marcus turned aside that first assault with ease. "Not bad ... for a beginner," Neroon told him condescendingly. "Last chance. I was taught the pike by Durhan himself."  
  
Marcus almost laughed then. Dear God, if he only knew. "Oh really?," he couldn't resist commenting. "So was I." Let him think Marcus meant at the facility at Tuzanor. What would it matter? He'd be dead soon, and his secret would die with him.  
  
"You're a fool." Ah, Marcus smiled at the contemptuous comment. That sounded familiar. "But, if this is what you wish then Denn'sha it shall be. To the death!"  
  
Chapter Three  
  
2248, The Ingata  
  
Durhan was short, but powerful. Marcus had initially been surprised at what he'd mistaken for the first overweight Minbari he'd ever seen. That had been before the master had sent three huge opponents to the mat in a matter of minutes, without even appearing winded. He was big all right, but it wasn't fat. The man was one huge muscle, all the strength of which was about to be turned on him. Marcus decided that he didn't feel well.  
  
He'd already damned Sorval to the lowest pit of whatever hell the Minbari believed in at least ten times that morning. For a young man who supposedly didn't know anybody, he'd managed to make a number of enemies. Most of the other young officers were merely aloof, much as those on the shuttle had been. Marcus assumed that was due to Sorval's caste rank, which seemed to make some people nervous, or because many of the Minbari had been assigned duty with the same people they had gone through training with, meaning that most of them had known each other for decades. The standoffishness, however, wasn't a problem. In fact, Marcus welcomed it. The less he had to interact with anyone, the less likely he was to give himself away. No, the difficulty was the reputation for arrogance that had preceded him, which his quiet demeanor seemed to reinforce; it had already won him some less than friendly looks from those of his own rank. The middle rank officers were also less than happy to meet him, due to the fact that Sorval had received a commission ahead of their protégés simply because of the name he bore. Then there was Master Durhan, who seemed to dislike Sorval on a personal level. At least, Marcus hadn't noticed anyone else having to run ten miles on the damned treadmill as a "warm up."  
  
He came to the end of the run, sweating like a pig underneath his padding and body mask. Thankfully, the synthaskin did not show a change in color, allowing him, if he managed to control his desire to gasp for air, to look as cool as the other Minbari. Unfortunately, his unruffled demeanor earned him attention where he least wanted it.  
  
"Good! Perhaps you aren't as out of shape as I thought!" Durhan's hearty tones were beginning to get on Marcus' nerves, but he was careful to show no emotion as the master looked him over. The mask was designed to follow his muscles, including those of his face, so he had to be careful to watch his expression at all times. "Let's see if you can handle a pike better than your sire!"  
  
Marcus sighed inwardly. Of course, they couldn't start with hand to hand or something else in which he might have made a decent showing. It would just have to be the pike, which no one had used for serious combat on Earth since the damned Middle Ages!  
  
Marcus had retained some of Sorval's memories about common Minbari weapons techniques, but he doubted they'd do him much good against Durhan. Since the master had just dumped three well trained Minbari, who'd probably been carrying pikes since they were old enough to walk, on their collective arses, Marcus had no illusions as to how long he'd last. Getting beaten up was the least of his worries, however. What really concerned him was what would happen if Durhan landed a tough blow that tore his costume. Synthaskin was durable, and tears knitted together quickly, but they would show as silver scars for a few moments at least. Not to mention that if the master managed to knock him out or break a bone, he'd be on his way to the medical facility where one scan would show the truth. No, somehow he had to avoid any type of serious injury. Too bad the new arrival wasn't going to be allowed to stand around and watch for a few weeks as he'd hoped.  
  
It quickly became apparent that Durhan wasn't pulling his punches. The wind whistling past Marcus' ear at a barely dodged blow was proof that, if any of the master's strikes landed, he would be in trouble. His pads would give him some cushioning, but not, he very much feared, anywhere near enough. Humans didn't have the Minbari bone mass, and a blow that would simply inconvenience one of the other students would likely incapacitate him. No, it couldn't end on his first day, before he even had a chance to try to complete his mission! He wouldn't let it all fall apart so easily.  
  
Marcus had the advantages of speed and agility over Durhan, and he used them to keep out of the way of the hail of blows being aimed at him while he tried to think. The Minbari likely knew little about Terran fighting methods, especially the more esoteric ones. Marcus' training had included some time with a karate teacher who'd been fascinated with Japanese, Chinese and Okinawan staff fighting. Of course, the staffs he'd used in class had been heavily padded, and had often still surprised Marcus with the force of the blow they could land. Durhan, he noticed, hadn't padded his staff, or denn'bok as the Minbari called it. Marcus would have vastly preferred not to use his old teacher's tactics for fear of drawing attention to himself, but it wasn't like he had a choice. Durhan might be fighting for fun or to show off; Marcus was fighting for his life. He only hoped no one recognized any of the moves as uniquely Terran.  
  
He took the offensive suddenly with a Huen Sao reap that almost succeeded in knocking the master off his feet. Durhan jumped over it at the last second, but it surprised him, allowing Marcus to take advantage of the almost stumble. He closed enough to snag one of Durhan's legs with his own and simultaneously drove the pike as hard as he could into the master's chest. He didn't worry about seriously injuring him--Durhan was wearing the sturdy body armor common to the Warrior Caste, and Marcus doubted any blow he could aim would penetrate it, but he hoped to knock the wind out of his opponent and force an early end to the match. Of course it didn't work. Durhan went down, but almost immediately bounced back up looking amazingly cheerful for someone who'd absorbed a blow that would have knocked a human unconscious.  
  
"Well, not bad--for a beginner. I see that I can stop holding back."  
  
Marcus barely had time to wonder what the master meant before the fight escalated to the point that he couldn't think at all and remain on his feet. He fought with every trick, dirty or not, that he knew and invented a few new ones on the spot, but Durhan met everything with ease and always seemed a step ahead. Marcus' karate teacher had often spoken of soldiers entering a fugue state in combat, where everything other than the events of the moment faded out, and the battle became the whole world, but he'd never experienced it until then. How long they fought Marcus never knew, only that, when the gymnasium finally began to intrude again on his senses and he started to hear the surprised murmurs of the large crowd that had gathered around the practice mat, he was hit with the most overwhelming exhaustion he'd ever known.  
  
Durhan bore evidence of several wounds, with one above his right eye bleeding profusely, but he looked as if he was having the time of his life. "All right, that's enough for now, I believe," he commented crisply, retracting his pike and regarding Marcus with an odd expression. Marcus desperately wanted a mirror, to see how his costume had fared, but assumed it had to be holding up or surely someone would be dragging him off to the brig by now. He stumbled over to the wall and slid down to a seated position as Durhan started to test another new arrival. Marcus managed to reattach the collapsed pike to his belt, but his hands were shaking with exhaustion, making it a major operation. When he looked up again, it was to see the young man who had taken his place get forced off the mat by a powerful blow, his round with the master having taken all of about two minutes. Marcus watched as a succession of other students were gracefully savaged over the next fifteen minutes, while he fought to stay awake. God, everything in his body hurt, and underneath the damn synthaskin he was soaking wet. Three weeks were beginning to look very much like a lifetime.  
  
"All right, enough!" Durhan disposed of the last unlucky specimen and proceeded to give them a long lecture on the pathetic excuse for warriors they all were, and how he was going to whip them into shape if it killed them. Marcus did not share the uneasy chuckle that ran through the group at that comment; he wasn't at all sure Durhan was kidding. "Your new physical regimens will be uploaded to your computer account by this evening. If I hear of anyone skipping the workouts, I'll pull you aside for some one on one training, understand?" The new arrivals bowed before scattering gratefully. Marcus slowly got to his feet, but, of course, wasn't allowed to leave with the rest.  
  
"A few of those moves were rather unique," Durhan told him, intercepting him before Marcus could get anywhere near the door to the corridor. "It looks as if your father didn't completely neglect your education, after all." He looked like he expected an answer, but Marcus had no idea what would be safe to say. He muttered his thanks, and to his great relief, the master seemed satisfied. "You'll be late for your first duty shift; can't have that," he was told heartily. "But we'll talk soon, young Sorval." Durhan strode off, looking like he'd spent the morning watching vids instead of fighting a dozen well-trained men and women. Marcus scowled after him, and limped off for the next test on what was already shaping up to be a very long day.  
  
Neroon regarded the pale green flarn puree on his plate with less than appreciation. He had long made it a habit to dine with his old teacher once a week, and they traded off host duties. This week was Durhan's turn and, as usual, the quality of the food wasn't up to Neroon's standards. He wished they were eating in the mess with everyone else; they were serving a sweet soup made with Se n'kai tonight, and while it wasn't a personal favorite, anything was an improvement over the tasteless vegetable Durhan so enjoyed. It was versatile, being made into everything from a custard- like dish, which was what he supposed Durhan had been trying for, to pasta, but the simple fact was that flarn remained flarn in any incarnation, and Neroon had eaten more than enough of it as a young trainee to do him for a lifetime.  
  
"And came damn close to throwing me two more times! I tell you, he's a find!" Durhan shook his head. "Must take after his mother." The master was going on about one of his students as he had been for some time. Neroon was less than interested; at the rate the war was going, hand-to- hand fighting wouldn't be necessary. Once the remnants of Earth's fleet and its defense grid were dealt with, victory would be assured no matter how many ground troops the Earthers might manage. The Minbari fleet would blockade the planet from space, and ground troops were of little use if you had no ships left with which to transport them.  
  
"I am glad to note that at least one of the new arrivals meets with your exacting standards, my friend."  
  
"Oh, go ahead, Neroon," Durhan grumbled good-naturedly. "Rub it in; I don't care. I intend to pick his brain for every new technique--some of those were truly extraordinary--and set up a new training regimen for some of the old hands around here." He gave Neroon an arch look. "Even some of the command staff are getting a bit soft."  
  
Neroon laughed. "Don't tell me you think this protégé of yours can best me, my friend. Do you dislike the boy that much, to set him up for humiliation?"  
  
"And a few are becoming over prideful, did I mention that?," Durhan continued dryly. "In any case, while I don't think he could best you yet, give me six months with him and we'll see. He landed some good blows today; if he hadn't been pulling his punches, I'd probably be in a good bit of discomfort right now. He gave me more than half an hour's work out!"  
  
Neroon was surprised. It had been some time since anyone had lasted longer than a few minutes with the master, and to land any strikes at all was unusual. Durhan was known as the best for a reason, and Neroon had been grateful to gain his expertise for the Ingata. "What did you say the boy's name was?," he asked, pushing some flarn about so that it would look like he'd eaten.  
  
Durhan gave an exasperated sigh. "You come to me to hear about the new recruits, then spend half the night thinking about battle maneuvers or some such thing! If you had been paying attention, you would know I was speaking about Sorval. I'd think you would be happy to hear a positive report about one in your own department."  
  
"Sorval? Tyamer's heir?"  
  
Durhan groaned. "Don't remind me! The man is insufferable enough as it is. I'll have to tone down my praise of the young Kathui or I'll never hear the end of it!"  
  
The master went on to give Neroon a report on the rest of the new recruits, but the Ingata's First was no longer listening. He found it difficult to believe that the gawky young stripling he'd escorted from the landing bay had been able to wrest praise from master Durhan. Few did, and no one, to Neroon's knowledge, had ever managed to make the Master rethink his whole training schedule. Neroon ate his flarn mindlessly as he decided that perhaps he'd pay a bit of attention to young Sorval, and see what other talents he might be hiding.  
  
Marcus stared at the specs running across his computer terminal with something approaching awe. Earth Force had managed to capture a few of the smaller Minbari ships, including one Nial class heavy cruiser, and take them apart for study. But no one had any idea of the capabilities of a Sharlin class ship, since anyone who met one tended to end up as space dust shortly thereafter. One hundred ninety crew, 15 Nial fighters, 6 neutron cannons, 18 fusion cannons, 6 missile launchers, a plasma net generator and an electric pulse gun. And that was just one ship. No wonder Earth Force was getting pulverized!

More to the point from Marcus' perspective was the intricacy of the ship's computer system. He'd expected it to be more complex than those of the fighters they'd examined back at Intel headquarters, but had confidently assumed he could compensate. There hadn't been a lot of recreation possibilities on Arisia, and like most of the children there, Marcus had been a computer nerd. His ability with computers was one reason the 22 year old had been drafted by Intel, rather than another part of Earth Force, and had, along with his mental affinity with the dump process, been one of the main things that had recommended him for this assignment. He was still sure he could compensate for the variations from the designs he'd seen back on Earth; the problem was not ability so much as access.

The Ingata had two computer systems, the basic, which closely resembled the one on which he'd trained, that was used for most ship's business. It gave him everything from his duty schedule to personal messages and was not a problem. Unfortunately, it was also not useful from the point of view of his mission. Obsidian had to be downloaded into the Ingata's primary network, which controlled vital systems like life support and weaponry, and it was protected like nothing he'd ever seen. As a weapon's officer he did, of course, have basic access, a necessity for his job, but basic wasn't going to cut it. Even if he downloaded Obsidian at his current level and it took out the lower functions, it wouldn't derail the main ones needed for combat, or do enough damage in general to effect the outcome of the battle for Earth. He needed the access codes to the higher levels and thus to the computer core. And the only people who had them were command grade: Shi Alyt Branmer and Alyt Neroon.

Marcus had been racking his brain for over an hour to try to see another way into the primary system--he wasn't a bad hacker, the adult vids on Arisia having been firewall protected--but it rapidly became obvious that the only way into the higher levels of the Minbari computer system was through those passwords. If he'd had a year to examine the system, maybe he could have found another way, but he had less than three weeks and a host of other duties to take up part of that time. Things were not looking good. Marcus waited until his first duty shift was over, then rapidly made his way back to his room and called up the personnel files on Branmer and Neroon. It surprised him to learn that Branmer had, until recently, been a member of the Religious Caste, and had only become a leading voice among the warriors after Dukhat was killed by the Prometheus. The captain had an incredibly busy schedule, Marcus noted, and try as he might, he could see no openings where a newly arrived officer might have a chance to get to know him. At least not well enough to be able to observe him entering in his private code sequence. After a short break for a trip to the mess hall for take out--no advantage would be gained in allowing himself to weaken from starvation--Marcus turned his attention to Neroon's file.

It looked slightly more promising than the captain's, mainly because Neroon was head of Weaponry and therefore his commanding officer. Not that he'd actually seen him that day, when a mid-level officer named Rudan had shown him the ropes, but it did explain why the ship's first officer had bothered to meet his shuttle. Marcus was working for him. Marcus forced himself to keep spooning up the largely tasteless soup that had formed the main course that night as he read all about Alyt Neroon. It surprised him to note that the man was over seventy Earth years old. No one back home was sure how long Minbari lived, but the ship's First hadn't looked like an old man to Marcus. He quickly called up Durhan's profile, and discovered that the sech who'd come close to wiping the floor with him that morning was almost 100. After a perusal of other ship records, Marcus made the guess that Neroon's age would put him somewhere in his early thirties if he'd been human, which made it surprising that he was already second in command of the Ingata and had been so for several years. Of course, the fact that he had been the leader of the Star Rider's clan of the Warrior Caste since his father's death a decade before might have helped, Marcus mused.

After reading the profile three times, Marcus sighed and sat back, feeling a little sick. He wasn't sure if it was the soup and spongy bread like substance that had been served with it, or the plan that was beginning to surface in his head that was responsible. There might be a way to get to Neroon. His schedule was busy, but he was on the lists of those officers who were available at set times to help others with combat techniques, in his case with the denn'bok and several hand-to-hand methods unfamiliar to Marcus. His pathetic showing that morning against Durhan would probably allow him a believable reason to ask his section head for tutelage, assuming he was willing to accept the risk of Neroon beating the crap out of him. That wasn't, however, the part of his plan that worried him.

Marcus reread the entry one more time, hoping for a loophole, but none presented itself. The only way he could see to get close enough to Neroon to have a chance at that access code was offered by one line in the First's bio. It seemed that Neroon had had a spouse named Tallier who had died for some unnamed cause twenty-four Earth years before. The profiles, which were quite laconic, provided little background information, but in every search Marcus had done, Tallier came back as a male name. And therein lay both his greatest chance and his greatest challenge.

To gain the First's trust quickly enough to get the information he required, a seduction was perfect; but there were a whole host of problems associated with the idea. Marcus had little idea how to seduce anybody, having never before tried, and no knowledge at all about what might be acceptable to a Minbari male. He wasn't even sure if such a liaison was legal; after all, Earth Force had all kinds of fraternization regs against junior and senior officers getting involved with each other, especially when in the same chain of command. He also didn't know if his synthaskin costume, as technologically advanced as it was, would stand up to that kind of intimate examination. It hadn't, he reflected with dark humor, been in the design specs. Marcus sighed and went to sponge himself off again, not feeling adventurous enough to try the skin stripper that appealed to the Minbari's tougher epidermis. The more he looked at this mission, the more impossible it seemed. He desperately wished one of the more experienced agents could have taken it, but all had either lacked his computer knowledge or the mental resilience needed to get through the dump. If he was Earth's best hope, Marcus thought with a scowl, they were all in a lot of trouble.  
  
Chapter Four 2261, Babylon 5 Marcus woke up to pain, in massive amounts. Heaven wasn't supposed to feel this bad, so opening his eyes might not be the best plan. He wondered what purgatory would be like for him. A million years or so of reliving Arisia's destruction, perhaps interspersed with a few scenes from that last, horrific day on the Ingata? No, he definitely didn't want to open his eyes. "Stop faking. The instruments tell me when you're awake, you know." Stephen's voice cut through the fog swirling around his brain. Marcus winced at the light level in what was unmistakable MedLab as he cautiously cracked an eye. Only one seemed capable of opening at the moment, but it was sufficient to give him a view of the doctor's glowering face. "Hullo, Stephen."

"Don't 'hello Stephen' me. If you think I'm going to pass up the opportunity to tell you exactly what I think of this latest stunt of yours . . . " Marcus sighed and braced himself for the lecture. "You're absolutely right. But only because you're too banged up at the moment to appreciate the full effect. Nope, not gonna work myself up into a good fit until you're strong enough to stay conscious through the whole thing, and don't have any excuses for claiming not to remember it later."

Marcus sighed again. It was a bitch having a doctor who knew him so well. "Do I get a drink of water in the meantime?", he croaked, unable to manage his usual level of flippancy. He suspected that he was on serious painkillers due to the cottony feel of his mouth, but they didn't seem to be doing him much good. He wondered how many pieces Neroon had left him in. Why hadn't the bastard finished him? But then, Marcus reflected, the whole situation did have a curious irony. The last time they'd met, Neroon had left him broken and bleeding, too, but still alive so he could experience the rest of his world shattering around him. He wondered if that had happened again while he slept. "Delenn?"

Stephen gave him a drink, not nearly enough for Marcus' taste, and reassured him. "She's fine. Seriously pissed off at you, but fine." Marcus nodded his comprehension, and Stephen, sneaky bastard that he was, adjusted something on the array of tubes leading into various parts of his patient's anatomy. A few seconds later, Marcus floated off again.

The next time he awoke, Neroon was looming over him, mumbling something about having a revelation. Marcus made a flip remark, which won him one of Neroon's rare, booming laughs. It was, of course, only a very nice dream. He was probably dying, so his subconscious was giving him the solace of taking him back to a time before Neroon's treachery, to when Marcus had known what he thought was true intimacy for the one and only time in his life. Then they had shared much more than their bodies, and laughter had been commonplace.

"All right, that's enough." Stephen was shooing someone out of his room, but Marcus didn't have the strength to care. Perhaps Susan was trying to visit. They were friends, after a fashion, despite the fact that she found him about as attractive as an annoying baby brother. Just as well; considering that he was a virgin where women were concerned, he'd probably manage to disappoint. Hell, he wasn't even sure if he hadn't bored the hell out of Neroon during their little tryst. The Alyt had had a vested interest in keeping Sorval happy, after all, so it wasn't like he'd have told him. And he certainly threw him over quickly enough, given the opportunity.

The next time Marcus resurfaced from the meds, Delenn was there. He thought she might have visited before, but wasn't sure. The medication was making everything fuzzy, but since Stephen was pumping it directly into his system, there wasn't much he could do about it. "Marcus. You are looking better." Marcus glanced at Lennier, in his usual place a step or so behind Delenn, who gave him an encouraging half smile. They were both being diplomatic, he was sure. Stephen had removed the only mirror in the room, making Marcus suspicious about exactly how good he was looking these days. Speaking of which, "What day is it?" His voice was rough, but understandable.

"You have been in MedLab for three days," Delenn informed him, and Marcus bit back a groan. Great; at least four meetings with important contacts missed, and none of them was the type to risk visiting him in the brightly lit and very public MedLab. He needed to get back to work.

"What are you doing?" Stephen's outraged tones came as soon as Marcus tried to remove one of the forest of tubes snaking into his arm, side and even the top of his leg. What, had they run out of other veins?

"I have to see a few people," he began, only to wince as the volume of Stephen's displeasure broke over them all. Lennier looked faintly impressed; apparently, he hadn't had the pleasure of hearing the good doctor rip someone apart before. When the lecture, to which Marcus listened only enough to note when it wound down, had stopped, he tried again. "My contacts won't speak with anyone else, and there's been some strange rumors lately . . . "

"There are ALWAYS strange rumors around here; this place thrives on them." Stephen dismissed his concerns with an angry swipe of his hand. "Let me be VERY clear," he said, getting to within two inches of Marcus' face. "You. Are. Not. Going. ANYWHERE. You are going to stay here and heal. No, I don't trust you," he forestalled the intended protest, "not even as far as I could throw that medical bed with you in it! Anyone you need to talk to can use the comm system until I choose to release you. And don't try it," he added, noting the direction of Marcus' pleading glance. "Delenn backs me completely on this."

The newly installed Entil'zha had on her implacable look, the one that said, 'I will smile and be extremely polite while I tell you no repeatedly.' Marcus lay back without even trying. Bollocks.

"Get well, Marcus," Delenn told him, before she and Lennier were ushered out by a very smug looking Stephen. The good doc obviously thought he'd won, but Marcus wasn't about to lay back and watch entertainment vids while his whole, meticulously assembled informant net collapsed from lack of attention. It would take him a year to reassemble it if Stephen had his way and kept him swaddled in a medical bed for weeks. And that was too high a price to pay for a leisurely recovery. Besides, he hadn't been inventing an excuse to escape MedLab; there really had been some very disturbing rumors floating about before Neroon decided to come by and cock up his life again. As soon as Stephen's back was turned, Marcus quietly slid the comm panel over to him and began working on his escape.

Marcus knew they were hunting him; could feel the net tightening around him, but he had a job to finish first. The informant he was meeting was a Pakmara who had a marginally higher IQ than most of his species. That only meant, of course, that he was slightly to the intelligent side of bread dough, but he nonetheless did manage to convey one piece of interesting news. To most people, it would have been a mere curiosity; to Marcus, however, it was the last piece in a puzzle that had been weeks coming together.  
  
The news was anything but welcome, but Marcus paid up. He tried not to think what horrid, half rotten delicacy the money would be used to obtain, and sat down to await his stalker in relative comfort. He wasn't long in coming.  
  
"Ah, I see I'm honored," Marcus quipped, as Garibaldi himself stomped into the unused cargo bay.  
  
"You better be glad it's me," Michael told him shortly. "Delenn's fit to be tied and you don't even wanna know what Stephen was saying when I left MedLab."  
  
"Don't suppose you could just forget you saw me?," Marcus asked hopefully. Sometimes Michael could be reasonable; one look at the set of the Chief's jaw line, however, told him that this wasn't going to be one of those times.  
  
"Don't suppose I could." His face softened after witnessing Marcus' less than successful attempt to rise, and he hurried over to help him up. His nose wrinkled slightly at the lingering essence of Pakmara, but he didn't say anything. Marcus' contacts occasionally mentioned things of interest to station security and, when they wouldn't compromise any of the Order's activities or reveal his secret ways onto the station, Marcus dutifully passed them on. Michael requited by turning a blind eye to all reports of odd meetings involving the Ranger. "You really shouldn't be up. You look like shit."  
  
"Thank you for that assessment."  
  
"No problem. Come on," Michael threw an arm around Marcus' waist to keep him from tipping over. "Let's smuggle you back into MedLab. Stephen might be somewhat mollified if he sees you all tucked up in bed, safe and sound."  
  
"Right." Marcus wasn't overly worried about getting another lecture from the doctor; his head was still swimming with the implications of the Pakmara's news. "Look, Michael, I need to check on a few things, but Stephen has his bloodhounds out after me . . . "  
  
"One of whom is me," the Chief reminded him as he calmly tapped his comm badge to let C&C know that the package had been retrieved.  
  
"Tell the package that he'd better keep his sorry ass in Medlab, or I'll come down there and tie him to the bed!" Ivanova's furious tones came clearly through the link. Marcus winced. "Never been called that before," he said, altering his expression to what he hoped was a charming smile, but under the circumstances might have looked more like a grimace.  
  
"We thought it best not to alert anyone to the fact that you were walking-- or possibly crawling--around the ship in no shape to defend yourself. You do have a few enemies, or so I hear." Marcus smirked; he didn't know the half of it. "And before you can ask whatever it is you're about to hit me with, understand that this is one time all my sympathies are with Stephen. Besides, there's a lot of people I don't mind having mad at me, but Delenn isn't one of 'em. And she isn't gonna believe that I couldn't bring you in if I wanted, especially in the shape you're in."  
  
"Yes, fine, I understand your dilemma, Chief." Marcus thought quickly as Garibaldi hauled him into a freight elevator, the fastest way out of the warren of storage bays. "But perhaps we could come to a compromise?"  
  
"Why would I need to do that? I don't think you're in any shape to make a run for it. I'm taking you back to MedLab, and that's all there is to it."  
  
"Yes, but will I stay there? Come on, Chief," Marcus wheedled. "Wouldn't it be better to have my promise to stick around and let Stephen have his fun, without him having to keep me drugged out of my mind or, as Susan suggested, tied to a bed? He does have better things to do, as does his staff, than watching me every minute."  
  
"And what exactly would this promise cost me?," Michael looked suspicious, but at least he was listening.  
  
Marcus hit the emergency stop; nowhere was safe to discuss this, but an unused freight elevator in an empty cargo bay was as good as he was going to get. "This is important," he said, and Michael's hand, which had been reaching for the release, fell away.  
  
"All right. You got five minutes, then I'm stunning you, throwing you over my shoulder and carting you back to MedLab, got that?"  
  
Marcus didn't waste time replying. "I had to meet a contact; he gave me the usual load of dreck, but there was one jewel among the dross this time." Marcus took a deep breath; God, he hoped he wasn't going to regret this. "The Minbari fleet lost a ship recently, one of the Sharlin class cruisers. It won't have been on the news," he cut off Michael's objection before he could make it, "The Minbari don't want anyone to know. But the ship was plundered by Raiders and some of its . . . remains . . . were pillaged by the Pakmara before the Minbari could retrieve it."  
  
The two shared a shudder at the thought of what the Pakmara had probably wanted with it. Carrion eaters weren't picky. "But Raiders don't hit something that big, unless they were traveling in a larger than usual configuration," Michael mused. "And even then, I can't see them going after a Sharlin cruiser--those things are like a floating fortress."  
  
Tell me about it, Marcus thought. "Yes, normally they'd avoid anything well able to protect itself. But I've reason to think that this one wasn't. That currently, a lot of them aren't."  
  
"A lot of what? Marcus, if you've got a point . . ."  
  
"No one can know you got this from me," Marcus insisted. "If you think I have a lot of enemies now, it's nothing to what would happen if the source of your information was leaked. Do you understand?"  
  
"Ok." Garibaldi had become very serious, and Marcus decided to go for it. The Chief had impressed him more than once with both his ability and his discretion, and in any case, it wasn't like he had a choice. This time, he certainly couldn't tell Delenn.  
  
"A number of Minbari cruisers, possibly all of them, have been infected with a computer virus. A bad one. It happened back during the war, when the virus was implanted in one ship before the Battle of the Line. But, since the Minbari surrendered, it was never used. It spreads through the ships' communication's system so, after this long, I have to assume most if not all of the fleet is infected."  
  
"Then why haven't they been having problems all along?"  
  
"Because the virus lays dormant until activated, and the activation code was never sent. But I've been hearing rumors for a few weeks now that may indicate that someone has obtained the code. I assume it was sold to the Raiders, who would pay a high price for being able to plunder the Minbari fleet at will."  
  
Garibaldi whistled. "I'll just bet. But that means the entire fleet is in danger, and that means . . . "  
  
"That so is Babylon 5. The Minbari ships guarding the station have always been its best line of defense. The Minbari HAVE to be told about this, Michael; they have to purge Obsidian now, or soon there won't be a fleet left."  
  
"And you know about this because?"  
  
Marcus shook his head. "No. But I can give you the specs on the virus, show them how to identify it. It's subtle; they won't find it in time otherwise."  
  
"And you are telling me this instead of Delenn because?"  
  
"No questions, Michael! Ok, look," Marcus saw the expression on the Chief's face, and knew he wouldn't budge without some kind of explanation. "Intel invented it--or co-opted it, rather--during the war. When it didn't turn out to be needed, it was left in place because no one trusted the Minbari to keep the peace."  
  
"So Obsidian was a type of insurance," Michael was quick, Marcus noted with relief. His strength was fading fast and he still had to get the damned program to the Chief. "They go ballistic again, we take out their entire fleet. Nice."  
  
"Exactly. Only it would be less nice if someone else did it now that we're allies. And with all the upheaval on earth lately, somehow, the secret slipped out. I may be able to figure out who messed up," Marcus thought aloud, "given time. There were only a handful of us who knew."  
  
"Uh huh." Michael was looking at him shrewdly. "And you were all of what? Twenty one, twenty two in the war? How did you become so familiar with a top level program that you're still, twelve years later, able to write it out from memory?"  
  
Marcus sighed. Bugger it. He should have known that keeping secrets from Garibaldi was a sucker's bet. Anyway, the Chief already knew enough to hang him out to dry if he chose, and Marcus did need his help. "Because I'm the one who delivered it."  
  
Chapter Five 2248, The Ingata Neroon picked himself up from the mat and glared at the skinny child standing over him. The only thing that saved the boy from a serious beating was the fact that he was not smirking. In fact, his carefully neutral expression had not changed once since they began twenty minutes before, something that was really beginning to infuriate Neroon. "Again." Neroon took a stance opposite his opponent, and tried not to let it bother him that his tutelage of the youngster was quickly turning into a tutorial for himself.

Durhan hadn't been joking; the child knew some completely original maneuvers, which collectively were resulting in the closest thing to a trouncing Neroon had received in a long time. And, as if afraid to hurt his decrepit old section head, the boy added insult to injury by barely tapping him when he connected. Neroon could hardly feel the blow through his armor that the boy landed a few moments later, using another odd maneuver. To make things worse, his even, aristocratic complexion hadn't the slightest hint of a flush to mar its smooth surface, while Neroon had no doubt that he was coloring nicely. Maybe there had been some truth in Durhan's jibe that he was getting soft.

After chasing the child around the practice mat for another twenty minutes, Neroon called a halt to their session. He had a good excuse--another pairing had reserved the mat--but in truth, he was the closest to winded he had been in a while and needed the breather. The damned child wouldn't stay still! He was everywhere except where he was supposed to be, dodging and weaving through all of Neroon's attacks, then coming out of nowhere with another move the First had never before seen. Neroon decided that he was definitely going to schedule an extra training session or two into his week; when a lanky lad of less than twenty cycles could best him, something had to be done.

He noticed that the boy was still standing by the mat, with the first expression Neroon had seen on his face all morning. Surprisingly, it wasn't triumph, although, had anyone been keeping score, he easily would have won the match. Instead, it looked like vague embarrassment, and Neroon was about to assure him that beating up his section head would not earn him extra duty when the boy spoke.

"They, uh, they're having flarn tonight, in the mess." He fidgeted. "I heard someone say you're not fond of it, and I'm not either. It's pretty bland, isn't it? That is, I know some people love it, and its very nutritious, but if you don't, then I was wondering if maybe . . . of course you don't have to, I mean, you're First, aren't you? Naturally you don't have to do anything, but I meant, I wouldn't be offended if you didn't want to."

Neroon eyed him suspiciously, but he was fairly sure that none of the blows he'd attempted to land alongside the boy's head had actually connected. "If I didn't wish to do what?"

The boy squirmed under his regard. "Um, it was probably a bad idea. I understand. I'm sure you have lots of work to do, and even if not, there's no reason why you'd want to eat with me, and . . . "

"That would be acceptable." Neroon didn't think he could face another dish of flarn, especially the way the mess hall fixed it, which, if possible, was even more bland than Durhan's version. He doubted, however, that the boy had the means to concoct much of an alternative. The junior officers' quarters most decidedly did not come with kitchens attached. "What did you have in mind?"

The boy looked surprised, as if he had assumed his invitation would be rejected, and hadn't given it much thought. "Um, it's a surprise," he finally replied, and Neroon decided to humor him and not press for details he probably didn't yet have. Branmer had asked him to let him know how the youth was settling in, and a leisurely meal would afford more opportunity for questions than a fierce sparring match. In any case, whatever food the youngster came up with, it couldn't be worse than flarn.

"Very well. Leave a message for me with the details. My shift ends two hours after yours."

Durhan watched the little tableaux with curiosity. Naturally, he was interested in how his best student would take on his latest protégé, and had to hold back a delighted grin more than once as Neroon ended up on the mat. Durhan could rarely spare time from his teaching duties to spar with the ship's First, and even when he did, they had fought each other too often to prove a real challenge. He knew all Neroon's tricks--not surprising considering that he'd taught him most of them--and Neroon knew his. It was only very occasionally that he managed to fool his old friend, but Tyamer's offspring had done it repeatedly. Neroon would, of course, absorb the new techniques and soon use them to properly thrash the boy; he had done as much once to Durhan himself. But it was certainly going to be amusing while it lasted.

Then, however, the boy had managed to surprise Durhan once again. Neroon was often a bit isolated from his fellow warriors since, as First, there were few with whom he could relax as equals. Branmer was usually busy, having become in Durhan's mind overly obsessed with the war to the exclusion of everything else; the chief medical officer and Neroon cordially loathed each other; and Durhan himself often had to rearrange his crowded schedule to make time for their once weekly meal. In addition to his status on the ship was Neroon's position as clan leader, which made even other Alyts somewhat nervous about approaching him. It had been, then, with the utmost surprise that Durhan had heard Sorval boldly, if somewhat incoherently, ask Neroon on what sounded suspiciously like a date.  
  
"Sorval! A word." Durhan watched as the boy trotted up to him. He looked as cool and collected as always, with no sign that he had recently been put through a punishing work out. Despite himself, Durhan was impressed. He looked him over. It was difficult to give an assessment of his relative attractiveness; he was still in that annoying stage where rapid growth spurts made him look like a famine victim, and he was without doubt too tall for the fashion. Still, his complexion was good, with a sheen to it that Durhan, who had suffered taunts as a child for his slightly coarser skin, secretly envied. He had good features, too, although his nose was a tad large; still, in another ten cycles or so, when his face and form broadened a bit, he might turn out rather well. He couldn't, of course, ever be expected to rival Tallier, but then, who could?

"So, you plan to court the Alyt, do you?" Durhan was pleased that his bluntness managed to draw a startled look from the boy. He was far too sunk in aristocratic reserve for his own good.

"I, erhm," the boy seemed to find words difficult, but Durhan didn't mind. He had summoned him over to listen, not to talk.

"That's good. Neroon has been alone far too long, as I have repeatedly told him. Still, the task you've set yourself won't be easy. When is your duty shift to start?"

"Er, in a few minutes, Master Durhan."

"Well, then, I'll have to take care of things myself. You run along for now. Come by my office after you get off and I'll show you what I've arranged."

The boy wandered off, looking slightly stunned, and Durhan smiled as he watched him go. He hated to do Tyamer's family a favor, but by Valen, if anyone could bring Neroon out of the isolation he'd wrapped around himself since Tallier died, Durhan was going to support it with everything he had. "Muran!," he called for his aide. "Take my morning classes. Something urgent has come up."

Marcus made his way slowly to the Ingata's hydroponics garden. Durhan had left him a message, telling him to meet him there, but Marcus had no idea why. He was close to panicking, as his duty shift had kept him far too busy to make any arrangements for the evening and Neroon was scheduled to get off rotation shortly. He hoped whatever it was Durhan wanted wouldn't take too long. One of his fellow officers had a friend on the mess staff, and Marcus was going to try and talk the man out of something other than flarn for his and Neroon's dinner.

"Ah, there you are. Over here." Marcus followed Durhan's voice to the far side of the last room in the gardens. The Minbari had accelerated the growth rates of many plants, including the one that was harvested for the dreaded flarn, allowing almost a quarter of the ship's food to be produced on board. It helped out with the oxygen levels, and cut down on the number of supply runs needed on long missions.

The rooms were mostly utilitarian, but the final one was banded by the observation windows that ringed deck 15, and the contrast between the black of space and the green tubs of plants was attractive. It reminded Marcus of his mother's garden on Arisia, in which she tried to keep a little of Earth alive so far from home. He only hoped she lived to see it again; Arisia had been evacuated because its Q-40 operation might prove an attractive target for the Minbari, and his family now waited on Earth for the war to decide their fate. Marcus intended to do whatever necessary to insure that they, and all the other families with them, would be safe. Even if that meant seducing a strange alien he'd only just met.

"All right, now pay attention," Durhan, who was kneeling in the middle of a nest of cushions, paused to light a candle. It, along with half a dozen others, were scattered around, adding a golden glow to the dimness of the ship's night cycle. Marcus was both relieved and somewhat nervous to note how much trouble the pike master had gone to for his dinner date. He must really be fond of Neroon, Marcus thought in awe, taking in the dozen or so silver dishes filled with food stuffs, most of the names of which he didn't even know. "Don't look so concerned," Durhan told him, amused. "I didn't cook." He leaned forward conspiratorially, "I called in a few favors."

"That was most kind," Marcus said lamely.

"Neroon is an old friend, as was his father before him," Durhan responded, casting a eye over the low table around which the cushions were scattered. "That's all right, I believe." He went on to give Marcus a brief run down of conversational gambits, most of which were completely useless since Marcus did not know anything about the entities that Durhan mentioned. They could be sports teams, musical groups or stamp collecting societies for all he could tell from the master's comments. He settled for fingering the small vial in his pocket and nodding at the appropriate moments. He really wished Durhan would leave. A few minutes later, the master seemed to decide that it was time for his exit, and with a command to the ship's computer to start playing some soft music in the background, he departed.

Marcus sat on a cushion and regarded the covered platters with taught nerves. He wasn't sure he remembered much about Minbari table manners. Better to drug the fruit juice now and hope the effects were quick acting. The bottle was only one of three on the table--Durhan really had gone all out--but Marcus hid the other two behind a planter. He wanted Neroon out of it as soon as possible, before he did or said anything to give himself away. His hands were shaking so that he could hardly get the stopper out of the bottle, but he finally managed and, with a nervous glance at the door, dumped in the whole vial. It was supposed to be tasteless; he only hoped that the more sensitive Minbari taste buds wouldn't be able to pick it out. Intel had invented it and used it with some success in the past. It was one of a small group of substances he'd brought with him in case they were needed, along with the antidote that he'd taken back in his room. Usually, the concoction induced a state in which inhibitions were dropped and the subject became extremely suggestible. Marcus only hoped it would work on Neroon, at least well enough to get him the code sequence. He needed it now so as to have time to alter Obsidian if it didn't work on the Minbari system.

"Impressive." Marcus jumped when he heard Neroon's somewhat surprised voice behind him. He looked around to see the Alyt, still dressed in his usual uniform, taking in the seductive scene. Marcus grabbed a glass and poured him some punch.

"We should eat," he commented, handing the glass to his victim. "It will get cold otherwise."

Neroon was regarding him oddly, and Marcus concentrated on pouring another glass and not spilling it all over the table. Relax, he ordered himself, and smiled as winningly as he knew how as Neroon slowly seated himself on a pillow. He scowled at it, and Marcus wondered if perhaps Durhan hadn't gone overboard. Certainly, yellow silk with orange tassels was a bit much; luckily the dim lighting took away slightly from the gaudiness of the overall effect.

"You went to a great deal of trouble," Neroon began uncovering dishes, looking impressed by their contents.

"Well, of course." Marcus decided to leave Durhan out of it. If he'd wanted his help to be known, he wouldn't have bustled away so that Neroon wouldn't see him. Neroon paused from filling his plate to regard Marcus levelly.

"I should tell you, your family name will not prejudice me in your favor, and neither will this." Marcus blinked. Of course, he should have assumed Neroon would think this was a bribe to look kindly on his newest officer. In his place, he probably would have thought the same. "I expect nothing less than complete objectivity," Marcus said truthfully. After all, if he was successful in his mission, by the time Sorval was due for an efficiency rating, he, Neroon and the Ingata would be dust.

"As long as that is understood," Neroon commented, seemingly mollified.

Marcus kept pushing juice at him, making sure that his glass was always topped up and being thankful that several of the dishes were highly spiced for the Minbari, which meant that he could actually discern some flavor. By the time most of the food had been disposed of, he had managed to pick his way through the minefield of Neroon's questions fairly successfully. He'd been questioned extensively about his duties, and had managed to sound enthusiastic about them. In truth, they'd required all his prior training just to keep him from looking like a complete idiot. Luckily, Sorval wasn't expected to already know the weapons system, or he'd have really been in trouble. Marcus acquired a headache as he struggled to answer the more difficult questions about his family. Sorval's memories gave him flashes of insight rather than whole pictures, and he had to all but make up some of his answers. Neroon didn't seem to know Sorval's family well, however, because he was called on none of the fabrications.

Marcus watched the level in the punch bottle carefully, and when it was almost empty, decided that it was time to test it. "Tell me about yourself," he said idly, and listened as Neroon gave a précis of his career that didn't tell Marcus much more than the personnel file had done. He couldn't tell if the drug was working or not from Neroon's answers, which were nothing he might not have said anyway.

"I was actually wondering if you, er, are with anyone right now." Marcus already knew the answer, of course, from Durhan's reaction that morning, but it was much safer asking about the Alyt's love life than about the pass codes. If he readily talked about personal issues, perhaps Marcus could risk edging around to the main point of all this.

"And why would that interest you, young Sorval?" Neroon looked amused, Marcus noted, but he couldn't tell if that was good or not.

"Er, well, it's just that I'm not seeing anyone, so . . . ," damn, this was harder than he'd thought! No wonder he's smiling, Marcus thought; I sound like an idiot.

"Yes?" Neroon looked like he was about to burst out laughing at any moment, a fact that seriously annoyed Marcus. All right, yes, he was a novice at this, but he was trying. Neroon could at least wipe the smirk off his face, even if he planned to turn him down. Marcus was never sure what prompted his next action, but thought nerves combined with irritation were probably partly to blame, that and the fact that he'd always been prone to leap before he looked.

"Just this," Marcus said, before he leaned across the table and kissed Neroon firmly, if inexpertly. Neroon simply stared at him when he broke away, causing Marcus to wonder if Minbari even kissed. Damn! He should have looked that up. He should, he thought a second later as Neroon dragged him back across the table, scattering dishes everywhere, have checked on a lot of things. Conscious thought fled then, in the face of an assault on his senses like nothing he'd ever known. Of course, his knowledge wasn't exactly extensive, unless you counted a few groping sessions with a couple of girls back on Arisia that ultimately hadn't gone very far. He did learn, however, that Minbari most definitely knew how to kiss, either that or Neroon was the fastest learner he'd ever seen. "We should continue this in my quarters," Neroon murmured against his throat a short time later. Marcus, who was still gasping for breath, could only nod. Now what had he gotten himself into?

Chapter Six 

2261, Babylon 5

Neroon sat in his quarters on the Ingata and slowly opened and closed the pike in his hand. It was a masterpiece. Perfectly balanced and with a fluidity in extension that clearly showed a great craftsman's touch. He even knew which craftsman--Sech Tiva'al, who had been renowned in centuries past for his exquisite workmanship. It bore none of the ridiculously overdone inlay that some of the lesser clans preferred; it had no need of such gaudy ornamentation. It screamed its quality silently, in the dull sheen of the alloy and in the perfect weight that would allow him to balance it on a fingernail, if he chose. It was a perfect example of the fine weapons regularly carried by the leaders of his house. The question was, what had it been doing in the hand of a Ranger?

Neroon was not a thief, but he had had no compunction about retrieving a piece of family history when the opportunity presented itself. In fact, seeing it in the Ranger's hand had been one reason he had hesitated to exterminate him. As far as Neroon knew, none of the ancient fighting pikes of his family were missing. Tiva'al had only made twenty to his clan's exacting specifications, and all were still proudly borne by family leaders, including Neroon. So the puzzle remained; whose did the Ranger carry? It was a mark of high honor to be gifted with one of Tiva'al's denn'boks, an honor usually given to the eldest child of a family after its holder became too old to wield it effectively. Neroon had sent messages as soon as he returned from the station's medical facilities, and already received back twelve replies. Sixteen of Tiva'al's masterpieces were accounted for, and a seventeenth hung at Neroon's own belt.

Of the three that remained, one he knew without the need for a confirmatory message resided with his mother. She had received it as a wedding gift and steadfastly refused to part with it. It was her favorite memento of his father, and anyone who dared to suggest that perhaps it would be better off with someone who could wield it more effectively was immediately challenged to a duel. A duel they would, of course, be forced to lose, or have to explain to their clan leader why they had chosen to beat up his mother. As a result, she would still, Neroon thought in amusement, be winning duels on her deathbed. That left two.

One he strongly suspected was with Marai, a distant cousin and the only one who had yet to respond, other than for the clan matriarch who did as she damned well pleased. Marai's father, one of the clan's best generals, had used it to bribe her to adhere to the Warrior Caste when she came of age. She'd been torn between it and the Religious Caste, where she could have studied her beloved philosophy without enduring the sniggers of her year mates. Her brilliant mind could also, however, be of use in the Warrior Caste's strategic division, as her father had often reminded her. The denn'bok had been the final sweetener, and she was currently the brightest light in battle tactics that the clan possessed, which was saying something. Neroon expected to hear back from her at any time, and if she confirmed that the prized item was still in her possession, that would leave only one possibility.

Neroon regarded the innocent looking piece of metal in his hand as a sea of turbulent emotions boiled behind his eyes. He had had little time to think during the fight, had simply recognized the pike as one of Tiva'al's. He'd been loath to kill the one who bore it whom, he'd assumed, had done some great service for a family member to have been accorded such a prize. He would have asked in MedLab, had that officious doctor not all but towed him from the room. And now he waited for Marai's call, waited and planned what he would do if the weapon he held was the one he supposed it to be.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that." Damn you, Marcus, Michael thought. If the Ranger wasn't already half dead, he'd have seriously considered beating the hell out of him. Michael had never before thought of Delenn as scary: stubborn, strong-willed, intelligent, and persistent, yes, but not scary. Not until now. She'd brought Sheridan into this, of course, but didn't really need him. In fact, all the guy was doing was sitting on the sofa in the ambassador's quarters, drinking tea and occasionally throwing Michael a sympathetic look; he hadn't said a word since their abbreviated greetings.

"Can't, or won't?," Delenn demanded, eyes flashing.

"Can't," Michael said firmly. "Look, Delenn, I know you're upset here, but . . "

"UPSET?" Michael didn't think he'd ever heard Delenn shout before. She did it rather well. "If what you have said is true, then all of Minbar is virtually defenseless! I believe that warrants my being more than simply upset!"  
  
"Yes, but it won't be defenseless for long if you just relay the information to your ships."

"I am supposed to tell them," Delenn said with obvious sarcasm, "that an unnamed source has told you that a computer virus has infiltrated all of our ships, and that the only way to clear it out is to take the core system offline and do a complete refit, which would keep our fleet useless for possibly as long as a week? To many, Mr. Garibaldi, that would look like an attempt to set up an invasion of our home world, would you not agree?"

"You don't have to take all your ships offline at the same time, Delenn," Michael pointed out. "Part of the fleet could be purged of the virus, while the other . . . "  
  
"But you just said that ALL our ships may be vulnerable to attack by anyone who has the activation code! You are suggesting taking half the fleet offline, while the other can be savaged at will by any passing Raider! And we can ask no one for help, or it will announce our vulnerability to the entire galaxy! Not to mention that the Warrior Caste, for one, will never believe that Earth managed to get past our defenses and upload such a debilitating virus directly into the core computer--they will laugh in my face if I even suggest such a thing."  
  
A light dawned. "Maybe not. The Ingata is still hanging out here, and it isn't part of the ships guarding the station. If it went offline for a few days or even a week, all anyone would think was that it was doing scheduled maintenance. If you could convince Neroon . . . "  
  
Delenn laughed, and it was not a happy sound. John shook his head at Michael. "You're grasping at straws," he told him. "Why would Neroon agree to make his ship vulnerable to search for a virus that he'll probably not even believe is there? Especially just on Delenn's or my word? Neither of us is exactly tops on his list, you know. Not to mention, Michael, that I have to voice some skepticism myself. I've never heard of any plan by Intel to try some hair-brained scheme like that! And if this Obsidian worked, why did they let half our fleet get blown to hell at the Line? It doesn't add up. Your contact was playing you."  
  
"No." Garibaldi shook his head, remembering Marcus' face. He'd suffered numerous broken ribs, a punctured lung, a broken arm, a cracked collar bone, and half a dozen serious contusions, yet he'd been worried enough to drag himself down to that cargo bay to meet that reeking Pakmara. Not the actions of someone who was bluffing, and anyway, that wasn't Marcus' style. "I believe my contact."  
  
"But you won't name him." John looked irritated at Michael's decisive no. "Then I don't see what we can do."  
  
"I can order one of the religious Caste's Sharlin cruisers to check for the virus," Delenn decided. "One ship going down for a refit will not cause concern, and if the virus is found, then we will have some proof to offer the Warrior Caste."  
  
Michael nodded and left, not getting the impression that his continued presence was exactly wanted. It was the best deal he was going to get; he only hoped it would be enough.

  
  
"What do you mean, it wasn't there?" Marcus' question came out in a hiss of surprise, but it would have done so anyway. His ribs ached like the very devil, and he strongly suspected Stephen of reducing his meds in the hope that pain would keep him in bed. Marcus was grateful that at least his head felt clear for the first time in days, but now his ears must be messing up. There simply was no way he'd heard correctly.  
  
"That's what the lady said." Michael sat in a relaxed looking posture on a chair drawn up to Marcus' bedside. If anyone looked in, they'd just see the security chief trying to cheer up a bedridden friend, or at least that was the hope. The expression on his face, however, which was turned away from the window, was not amiable. "I stuck my neck out for you--put my reputation on the line! Delenn now looks at me like I'm scum, and Sheridan is a hell of lot less likely to believe anything I tell him from now on, especially if I need it taken on faith. I need to know how sure you are of your facts."  
  
"Damn sure," Marcus replied immediately.  
  
"Then I need to know what happened--all of it--if I'm gonna continue to back you on this. You say your life is on the line; ok, how long do you think I'd last if a few of the warrior Caste get it through those thick skulls of theirs that I'm in league with some group planning to assault them? Or that I know anything about that ship that just blew up? I'm in this up to my ass, thanks to you, and the shit's rising fast. I want some answers and I want them now."  
  
An hour later, Stephen kicked a stunned looking Michael out of MedLab, which was fine with Marcus. All right, yes, he could understand that his story was a bit of a shock to the security chief--it sounded fantastic to him and he'd been there--but the repeated chorus of 'No WAY,' that had accompanied his narrative had begun to get annoying. Marcus lay back against the pillows and stared mindlessly at a vid screen playing some hideous Rebo and Zootie film. It kept Stephen away, who hated the comedy team almost as much as Marcus did, and made him look like he was doing something other than plotting.  
  
He had to talk to Neroon. It was going to get him killed, but there was simply no other way to deal with this. He didn't know why the Religious Caste ship hadn't been infected. Perhaps it was a newer model, perhaps it had a different computer system that Obsidian couldn't penetrate, or perhaps it had simply been lucky. That still left the majority of the Minbari fleet at risk, and at least half of it was definitely infected. Marcus had seen to that personally.

Something had to be done, and he couldn't go to Delenn with this. It would almost certainly result in his dismissal from the Rangers and his forfeiture of her trust if she found out the secret he'd been hiding all these years. To have accepted Minbari training, to have worn a Minbari uniform, and to have hidden the fact that he had and was continuing to betray them could have no other result. Marcus would have accepted those terms, if they were likely to undo the damage he had inflicted, but he agreed with Delenn's own assessment of the odds of the Warrior Caste listening to her. They would not believe one who many viewed as an abomination--a half human, half Minbari thing who had polluted their race and was openly cavorting with the human commander of the station. From many Minbari's perspective, even in her own Caste, Delenn had "gone native" and was no longer trustworthy. But Neroon they would believe.  
  
Now all Marcus had to do was figure out how to get Neroon to listen to him before he killed him. Oh, and how to get out of MedLab, since Susan, after consulting with Franklin, had smilingly handcuffed him to the bed. Marcus scowled at the steel ring around his left wrist, then called for the nurse. A little corrosive acid should work wonders; he just had to fool somebody into bringing him some.  
  
Chapter Seven

2248, The Ingata

By the time they managed to get back to the large quarters afforded to the ship's First, Marcus was starting to seriously wonder about the drug he'd given Neroon. None of the Minbari who had been captured and interrogated by Intel had reacted unusually; had he perhaps given the Alyt an overdose? Marcus had little time to contemplate matters, as he was hauled indoors by his enthusiastic partner. He received a glimpse of a small sitting area and a recessed kitchen before being dragged off to the bedroom. This, he decided, was going way too fast.

In his imagination, he'd expected a lengthy period getting to know the Alyt, during which their increased intimacy caused Neroon to trust him enough not to notice or to care if Marcus saw his access code. The drug had been meant to increase the likelihood of that happening quickly, not to induce whatever was currently happening. Marcus tried to think as he was pushed against the tilted sleeping platform and kissed almost into unconsciousness. What had gone wrong? The only answer he could come up with was what one of his instructors had told him back at Intel. The drug always resulted in some suggestibility, but how much was in direct relation to how pleasant or abhorrent the subject felt about the proposal. Neroon had apparently really liked the suggestion offered by Marcus' attempt at a pass. His roving hands, which were working perilously close to the only part of Marcus that was enthusiastic about the current mess, certainly seemed to indicate as much.

Marcus disentangled himself and tried to adjust his clothing, which had ended up in some disarray, over his traitor of a body. "That was wonderful, really," he gushed, backing into the living room and resolutely not looking at the door to the corridor. The temptation to run like mad was strong, but that wouldn't get him anywhere and there would be no second chances; he'd used the whole vial and didn't have another one. Neroon followed, watching Marcus with an expression that was eerily similar to one he'd turned on a favorite dish earlier. "But, er, I was hoping we could talk."

"We've been talking all evening," Neroon replied, grabbing for him, but Marcus danced back out of reach.

"True, but there's still so much I don't know about you. I have so many questions! We should talk," he repeated firmly. Marcus wasn't sure whether the new suggestion overrode the old, or if Neroon simply decided that it would be undignified to chase him around the room. He didn't waste any time worrying about it, but guided the Alyt to the sofa and positioned them on opposite ends, putting himself out of Neroon's immediate grasp. The problem, of course, was how to phrase his request. Some of the test subjects had difficulty remembering the questioning process the next day, whereas others recalled it perfectly. If Neroon was in the latter category, Marcus couldn't risk simply saying, "so, what's your access code, then?" This was going to require some finesse.

"The weapons system here is even more impressive than I'd thought, although I still don't understand how the plasma net works. Perhaps if you explained it to me?"

Neroon looked at him as if he'd lost his mind, and Marcus sighed inwardly. Yes, it had been more than a minor non-sequiteur, but he had to get the conversation around to something that would offer an excuse to ask Neroon to log onto the primary system, and there weren't that many options. Besides, they had been talking about weapons earlier. Eventually, either Neroon decided to humor him or the drug kicked in, for Marcus received an in-depth explanation of exactly how the Minbari version of a tractor beam worked. He knew some colleagues back at Intel who would be salivating over the information; for his part, he tried to pay attention, but most of his mind was occupied with getting his companion over to the small com unit in the corner.

"I'm sorry, but I suppose I'm a bit slow. I still don't understand. Perhaps if you brought up the specs?"

Marcus followed Neroon over to the terminal and watched as casually as he could manage while he logged on. The code sequence was complex, but Marcus had a good memory. He spent the next half hour reciting the numbers over and over to himself while Neroon walked him slowly through the specifications for the net. By the time they were done, Marcus knew little more about the plasma net than he had to start with, but he had the code sequence down cold.

"That was brilliant! Really, truly amazing," he said when Neroon finally worked his way through the entire blueprint. "It's a shame the evening has to end so soon, but maybe we can do this again sometime. I'll just go tidy up from dinner and then, well, look at the time!" Marcus knew he was babbling, but didn't care. His fingers practically ached to get hold of a computer and find out if his mission stood a chance after all. "We both need to get some sleep, don't we, or neither of us will be much use tomorrow!" Marcus made a sudden dash for the door and Neroon didn't try to stop him. He just sat at the terminal, looking flummoxed.

All right, Marcus decided, that probably ranked as the strangest date on record, and he doubted he'd impressed Neroon with either his cleverness or his idea of small talk, but at least it had worked! He had to forcibly restrain himself from grinning madly at everyone he met on the way back to hydroponics. Maybe things were looking up!

Neroon awoke with a throbbing headache and a profound feeling of disorientation. Neither was normal, and he briefly considered a stop by the medical lab, but rejected it almost immediately. The last way he wanted to begin his day was by seeing Tranus' smirking face. He went about his duties, which were more complicated than usual since he was handling virtually all the Shi Alyt's responsibilities as well as his own to give Branmer maximum time in which to plan the final assault. His captain spent much of the day on the Joran, in a meeting with other Warrior Caste leaders, while Neroon stayed behind to command the Ingata. He was actually pleased to have his captain otherwise occupied; Branmer's sharp, dark eyes missed little, and Neroon was in no way ready to answer questions about his current state of mind.

He was not sure if he could label exactly what he was feeling, but supposed that flabbergasted came as close as anything. Not at young Sorval, who had been amusing and rather charming in an inexperienced sort of way, but rather at himself. The sudden attraction he felt for the boy after that one, fumbling kiss had shocked him, and he had let things progress too far. He wasn't surprised that the young man had retreated into a long, technical discussion; he'd probably frightened him. He'd come close to frightening himself, as his emotions had threatened to get out of control for the first time in years, and that was not a situation he could view with equanimity.

After learning of Tallier's death, he had given into his rage and all but destroyed the rooms they had shared. He didn't blame himself, but he did regret it--as a result, he now had few mementos to remember his lover by. Tallier had only been a year older than he; they had grown up and gone through training together, been posted together on their first three assignments, and confidently expected to live the rest of their lives as one. Until a stupid, avoidable shuttle accident--not the result of battle but merely of a missed maintenance problem--removed his keystone forever from his life. After his rage quieted, the world had grown cold for him. Neroon had fled to space where he had remained ever since, refusing all home leave except those required by clan duties. Minbar held nothing but bad memories, and he couldn't walk in the same gardens, see the same sights or stay in the same residence that he had shared with his lover without pain. No, better to go to space, where at least his life might be useful; better to forget how to feel, for love was not worth the grief.

He had believed that he had banished all thoughts of the softer emotions from his life. He had taken no lovers since Tallier, nor had he wanted any. He ignored the few hints that were dropped of possible interest by others, knowing he could never return their regard. How could they replace someone who had been part of his life practically since his first memory? He and Tallier had shared a history that would be impossible to find with anyone else. Even other members of his clan, other age mates, did not know the childhood secrets, had not played the pranks, had not lived and breathed and fought and loved him like Tallier, and none ever would. He had believed himself immune to love, his heart hardened by its great loss, so it was with no little alarm that he found himself responding so avidly to a young man he had barely met.

Neroon had accepted the boy's offer of dinner expecting nothing except that he might thereafter be able to give Branmer a more well rounded report than merely speaking of his fighting skills. The most he'd hoped to gain was a decent meal. The idea that he might be overcome enough to practically drag Sorval to his quarters would have caused him to laugh with scorn, had anyone dared to venture the possibility in advance. Yet that was exactly what he had done, and only after a struggle with himself not to ravish the boy in the middle of hydroponics! Had Sorval not called a halt to the proceedings, Neroon had no doubts whatsoever that he would now have a new lover, a thought that truly appalled him. He did not want this! They were about to go into a war zone--in truth, they were already in one, as evidenced by the fifteen bodies that had been shipped back to Minbar after the recent suicide attack. Letting someone else into his life when they could easily be wrenched away from him was more than foolhardy--it verged on the insane!

He wondered what was wrong with him; had he simply been alone too long, as Durhan was constantly telling him? What did he see in the gawky young man who was, other than for a few fancy pike maneuvers, no different from a hundred others on the Ingata at the moment? Neroon decided that, whatever the cause of this odd attraction, he could deal with it. A few alterations to the duty roster insured that, starting the next day, young Sorval was on opposite shifts from him. He also resisted the temptation to call the young man and offer to repay his hospitality. Neroon was actually a fairly capable cook, having had to become so in self defense--several decades of mess hall food would have deadened anyone's taste buds--and his cabin was equipped with a small, but serviceable kitchen. He did not make the offer, however, in the hopes that, if he ignored the boy, his attentions would soon wane. He would find another interest, one closer to his age and without Neroon's baggage, and the Alyt could return to his previous, contented detachment. Yes, Neroon thought resolutely, ignoring the pang the thought produced; that would be best for all concerned.

"Bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, BUGGER!" Marcus banged his head on the desk, headless of possible damage to his mask or his cranium. The universe hated him; that's all there was to it. Of course, he should have known it was too easy. He should have known that Obsidian--bugger it--wouldn't work. He now had all of two and a half weeks to somehow fix the goddamned excuse for a program, or else to come up with a viable alternative. Either that, or he could watch his fleet be shot out of space like ducks in a shooting gallery, and Earth's last chance go down with them. Bugger!

The good news, he supposed, was that the access code worked perfectly. The bad news was that, even though he now had the power to render the Ingata useless in an attack even without Obsidian, his orders to the ship's core systems would have no effect whatever on the rest of the Minbari fleet. The main advantage of Obsidian was that it not only rendered its own computer useless, but was designed to rapidly spread to all others with which it had contact. In the busy communications preceding a major battle, that was expected to be most of the Minbari fleet. But Marcus seriously doubted that removing one ship from combat would make much of a difference for Earth. Perhaps the final battle would take an extra ten minutes or so without the flagship, but the end result would be the same.

Marcus spent most of the rest of the night trying, and failing, to figure out why Obsidian was so completely useless against the Ingata's computers. It was not surprising, then, that he was at less than his best when Durhan cornered him in the gym almost as soon as he walked in the door. "Ah, the romantic among us." Marcus thought that was a little rich; he hadn't ordered tasseled pillows and candlelight. "So, how did it go, young one?" Durhan surveyed him happily. "You look exhausted. Busy night?"

Marcus felt like replying, yes, actually, I spent most of the evening trying to figure out how to help my fleet to kill you. He bit his lip until he could answer semi-rationally, but his displeasure must have shown through. Durhan looked concerned at Marcus' polite thanks for his help, and his comment that he would be happy to return the props whenever it was convenient for the master. Durhan did not question him, however, only replied that he could drop them by at any time.

Marcus chose a sparring partner from among the mid-level officers, half hoping to get pounded into the ground and thereby have something to concentrate on other than his total failure as a secret agent. Instead, he almost managed to seriously damage the man, who was obviously not prepared to deal with an enraged and highly frustrated Earther in a really uncomfortable synthaskin suit. Durhan proclaimed the match over after preventing Marcus from destroying the man's body armor, not to mention his chest, in a ferocious assault that did not end even when his opponent was on the mat. Marcus barely noticed, but shook off the master's hands and stomped off for his duty shift, grumbling under his breath and wondering how the hell his day could get worse. As soon as he returned to his room that evening, he found out.

"I am Makren, family Chell'so, of the Fire Walkers," the young Minbari bowed low to Marcus. "I have recently transferred from the Joran. It is an honor to meet you."

Marcus noted that several bags had been deposited beside the table, heap of pillows and assorted serving dishes from the night before, leaving practically no room in the tiny cabin. Say goodbye to privacy, he thought in despair. Well, at least two and a half weeks straight in the synthaskin torture suit would probably have him looking forward to death. Especially since he wouldn't even be able to take out the damned contacts and give his eyes a rest at night. He'd have a hard time programming if they were watering as badly as they had been after the damned shuttle ride! Marcus managed a less than enthusiastic reply, then began the process of hauling off Durhan's equipment as an excuse to get away from his new roomie.

The main problem, other than for personal issues like how he was going to sleep on the damn tilted platform and avoid mumbling in English while he did so, was the issue of Obsidian's revamp. How was he going to work on it now? Even if what's his name had a different work schedule and they rarely saw each other, could he risk a major programming operation when his roommate could wander in at any time? Yet using his work console was equally impossible; his station was surrounded by several others, all of which were constantly manned. Not to mention that he was kept quite busy on his duty shift with little spare time for any personal projects. This, he decided as he dragged the table up to Durhan's door, qualified as a complete disaster.

He was so caught up in his black mood that it took Marcus a few moments to register the fact that Durhan was looking extremely pleased with himself. "Let that alone and join me for tea," he was told after a few moments. Marcus left off carrying the used platters to the kitchen and sat at a low table, the twin of the one he'd just returned, and drank the strong tea Durhan gave him. "I have good news for you, Sorval," Durhan added, almost beaming. Marcus eyed him warily but said nothing. He didn't know the sech very well, but had received the impression from some of the others in the gym that Durhan in a cheerful mood was rarely a good thing. It usually meant the master had come up with a new way to torment his students.

"Good news?"

"Indeed." Durhan smiled at him over his tea cup, and his brown eyes sparkling with what looked almost like glee. "I hear you've acquired a roommate."

"Er, yes." Marcus wondered where this was going. He hoped Durhan didn't want him to help the young man with the pike or some such thing. He had more than enough duties already!

"And I suppose you are less than pleased about that. You'd prefer to retain your own room if possible, wouldn't you?"

"I suppose." Marcus refused to allow himself to hope that there was another free officer's quarters. It wouldn't solve all his problems, but it would certainly help.

"Good, good." Durhan smiled. "There's no problem, then; not that I thought there would be." He handed Marcus a data crystal. "All the information is there. I'll let you run along; I know you probably didn't bring much with you, but you'll want to get settled before tonight."

"But . . . "

Marcus found his half empty tea cup plucked out of his hands and somehow a few seconds later he was standing alone in the corridor. What had just happened? Shaking his head, Marcus went back to his room where he informed his roommate that he was being moved to other quarters. He might have imagined it, but thought he saw a look of relief spread over the man's face before he quickly masked it. Apparently he hadn't been looking forward to the arrangement any more than Marcus.

Declining an offer to help, Marcus gathered up his few personal items and departed, eager to get somewhere to sponge off the day's perspiration and get a little programming done. He placed Durhan's crystal in a hallway access terminal and blinked at the results. Well, that was unusual. Still, Sorval was heir to the Moon Shields; maybe the new rooms, which happened to be on the senior officer's level, were a perk of his position. Marcus wasn't about to complain; anything that got him some privacy was fine by him.

He counted off rooms until he reached one almost at the end of the corridor. He keyed in the access code that had been on the crystal and the door opened easily. Marcus was halfway into the attractively furnished sitting room before he realized that something was very wrong. A glance at the computer terminal, over which a familiar looking small twining plant hung from a set of lights, confirmed his suspicions. Marcus dropped his bag and immediately put a call through to Durhan. "I'm afraid there has been a mistake, master. I seem to have accidentally been assigned to Alyt Neroon's quarters."

Durhan chuckled, and Marcus was glad his hands were not visible over the comm link, as they twitched visibly, probably wanting to be around Durhan's throat. "Yes, of course. You can hardly be his dra'ma if you're never available." Durhan looked smug.

"His dra'ma," Marcus tried to translate the term in his head, but the only word that came back was aide, and surely Neroon already had one of those. "But doesn't the Alyt already have . . . "  
  
"Yes, he has a shai'hat," Durhan responded placidly, "to help with the daily correspondence and to keep his schedule. However, he has never taken a dra'ma before, despite any number of families petitioning for him to train their offspring. I, er, convinced the Shi Alyt that Neroon had been remiss in this area, and he agreed with me. Branmer is quite close to your father, you know; I received the impression that he was happy to aide Tyamer's son."  
  
"Oh." Marcus had no idea what the difference was in the two terms, but could hardly ask Durhan. It was another of the things he should have known, but didn't. In the past few days, he had become very good at looking up answers to unexpected questions, and therefore offered no objections when Durhan signed off without further explanation. Since he was already at the terminal, Marcus ran a search on his new position. What he found was more than a little unnerving.  
  
A dra'ma was more than an aide--much more. An apprentice might have been a better translation, and it usually had that connotation for most Minbari. However, among the Warrior Caste it carried a slightly different meaning, especially in the case of a dra'ma to the Alyt or Shi Alyt of a starship. Dra'ma, or dra'sa if they happened to be women, were usually young warriors of great potential who were assigned to a senior officer to learn from him. Successfully completing a period of study, usually of several years duration, would almost always result in a quick elevation up the ladder of command, and had occasionally ended in a dra'ma obtaining the First's position when his former tutor received his initial command. It was a considerable honor, but also a huge responsibility. Marcus would be bodyguard, cook, houseboy, errand runner and trainee all at the same time. It would doubtless take up most of his small amount of free time, as dra'ma tended to be the shadows of their teachers; rarely, one account said, was one seen without the other. How, he thought in dejection, was he ever supposed to get any programming done? Damn Durhan! What could he possibly have been thinking?  
  
"What were you thinking?!" Neroon stared at his old friend in something close to horror. "You had no right to arrange this without telling me, no right at all!"  
  
Durhan shrugged, obviously unruffled. "If you doubt my wisdom, you are, of course, free to consult Branmer. Just explain to him that, while virtually every other officer of your rank has had at least one dra'ma or dra'sa in his career, and despite the fact that the young man shows remarkable potential, and even though Branmer himself is far too busy to take this on leaving you as the only alternative, you simply don't want to do it. I'm sure he'll understand."  
  
"Durhan," Neroon's growl would have cowed most of his acquaintance; unfortunately Durhan was the exception.  
  
"Of course, there is the possibility that he'll take it as a direct insult to the boy and to his family, and there's also the small issue of Sorval having already been told about it and being, at this very minute, busily moving in to your spare room. But I'm sure a sweet tempered type like Tyamer won't take things amiss when his son--his only son--calls in despair over being inexplicably rejected and forced to move back into his old rooms. Doubtless he'll get over the humiliation in time, although, of course, the next clan meeting might be a bit . . . tense."  
  
Neroon looked at his smug, smiling companion and wondered how much trouble he would get in for spacing him. "You deliberately went behind my back . . . "  
  
"Well, what choice did I have?" Durhan looked at him sternly. "What would you have done if I asked politely? Other than coming up with some excuse to say no, that is?"  
  
"Which would have been my right!"  
  
"And still is. Go see Branmer," Durhan told him breezily, knowing perfectly well he would do no such thing. Their Shi Alyt had enough to concern him at the moment without another problem being dumped in his lap. Not to mention that Neroon really didn't have an adequate excuse for refusing to take a dra'ma, especially one so highly ranked and obviously capable. To do so anyway would shame Sorval, infuriate Tyamer and put the entire Star Rider's clan at a political disadvantage for the foreseeable future. Tyamer's vote carried others among the clans, and Neroon had an obligation not to make the Star Riders any unnecessary enemies. Ultimately, there was nothing he could do about the situation except to see it through, no matter how uncomfortable that would be for him personally. "Valen, give me strength," he thought, as he turned his reluctant feet towards his quarters.  
  
Chapter Eight  
  
2261, Babylon 5  
  
"You're sure about this?" Michael looked dubiously at the razor he held. He wouldn't hurt Marcus' feelings for the world, but frankly, the guy's hair was probably his best feature. Cutting it off wasn't going to have him posing for any GQ--Galactic Quarterly--spreads anytime soon.  
  
"The synthaskin molds to the underlying epidermis, but it has a problem with hair because it shifts around too much. It's necessary, Michael--do it."  
  
Garibaldi followed orders, but again thought it was a shame, especially when he saw how ridiculously young a hairless Marcus looked. No wonder the guy had grown a beard; he could have passed for sixteen without it. His nose was also a little prominent all on its own, with nothing to draw attention elsewhere. He looked like a baby bird, all big eyes and protruding beak. Michael refrained from saying so, however.  
  
"Ok, what's next?" Marcus indicated the satchel he'd hastily packed in his room before he'd limped to Michael's quarters and dropped his bombshell. Michael had tried to talk him out of it, but frankly didn't see an alternative. He watched with curiosity as Marcus extracted a small, black case, which opened to reveal a silver mass that looked sort of like liquid mercury. It seemed to sense him, and creeped Michael out by flowing onto Marcus' nude body with all the familiarity of an old lover.  
  
"It was coded to my genetic sequence," Marcus explained as the thing thinned and spread along his limbs like water. "That's a fail safe, in case someone else found it; it wouldn't work for them."  
  
Michael nodded, amazed that the process didn't seem to bother Marcus at all. Of course, from what he'd said, he'd lived for weeks in the thing once. "How do you breathe?"  
  
Marcus took a bone crest, which had a packet of the silver stuff hanging from it, and proceeded to attach it to his head. "It's designed not to spread into inner membranes, so it stops and blends into my real skin at my mouth and nose and er, other places."  
  
"I meant, well, isn't it hot?" Michael was gaining new respect for the Ranger by the minute. He doubted he'd last a day in that thing.  
  
"It can be. The suit is supposed to be breathable, but it really only works if you're sitting at a computer or something. Any form of physical exercise and you warm up very quickly. I assume they've adjusted for that in the more recent models, but the technology was quite new when I used it. And I can't very well ask for a replacement, now can I?" Marcus adjusted the bone crest, which had gripped his head at a slight angle. "Well, what do you think?"  
  
Michael goggled at the slim, but believable Minbari standing in front of him. If he squinted, he could make out Marcus' features under the new face he wore, but only because he knew what to look for. He could have passed him in the Zocalo any day and never recognized him.  
  
Marcus looked pleased when he said as much. "I kept the suit after . . . after everything. Don't know why, really; I should have returned it, but it wasn't like I planned to do any more work for Earth Force, and it was coded to me. No one else could have used it." He drew on a Warrior uniform and regarded the effect in the mirror. "I thought about taking it out for a stroll a couple of times at Tuzanor, but ultimately decided it wasn't worth the risk. Durhan might have seen me, and wondered how I'd come back from the dead."  
  
"Marcus," Michael sighed. "Look, I know we've discussed this, and I know you feel you have to do this thing, but there's gotta be another way. Let me talk to Delenn again; maybe she can . . . "  
  
"Maybe she can what?" The pale Minbari attached his long, black cape with a clasp set with the Star Rider emblem. "There is no other way, Michael. If you want to help, wish me luck."  
  
In the end, Michael had done more than that. Marcus blessed him again for smuggling him through security--something that would have been easy to manage alone in decent shape, but not as things stood--and onto a shuttle carrying supplies to the Ingata. He hid among the casks and boxes, then escaped into the body of the ship at the first opportunity. No one who didn't know the ship as intimately as he did could have managed it, but the duty shifts hadn't changed in more than a decade, and neither had the ship's layout.  
  
Marcus took a long time to make it up to the senior officer's quarters, both because it was necessary to rest at frequent intervals, and because he was trying not to be seen. His disguise was good, of course, and with the Ingata's large crew compliment, it wasn't likely that most people on board would give him a second glance merely because he didn't look familiar. However, some of the old crew he had worked with doubtless were still in place, and he didn't want to have to explain his resurrection if possible to avoid it.  
  
After several hours, however, he had reached the Shi Alyt's quarters. He'd only been inside once, for tea with Branmer, but assumed Neroon had taken over the slightly larger captain's quarters since his promotion. There remained the possibility that he might not be in his rooms, but Marcus stopped at a computer terminal in a deserted passageway and logged on, using Neroon's old code sequence. It was a long shot, but he hadn't changed it. Marcus discovered that, not only was the Shi Alyt off duty, he also had no appointments listed for the moment. There was also no sign that he currently had a dra'ma. That didn't surprise Marcus greatly--his last one hadn't been a big success, after all--but it meant that no one was likely to be with him.  
  
Marcus made his way to the Shi Alyt's quarters, and cautiously signaled for entry. The door opened at once, almost as if Neroon had been expecting someone. "Do come in, Sorval." Neroon regarded him calmly. "I waited dinner for you."  
  
"You knew I was coming?" Marcus felt dizzy, but wasn't sure if it was the fatigue from his injuries, or Neroon's unexpected statement that had done it.  
  
In reply, Neroon simply handed him a metal cylinder, still warm from his hand, and disappeared into the kitchen. Marcus regarded his pike with a sinking feeling. If Neroon had known, or at least suspected, his identity since their battle, then he had had days to plan what to do about it. And giving Neroon an advantage like that was definitely not a good thing. Still, his problem remained what it had always been, and he still needed Neroon's help. Besides, he would only be able to leave now with the Shi Alyt's permission. Sneaking onto the Ingata had been one thing; sneaking off, especially in his current state, would be a whole different story. Whether for good or ill, his future was now most definitely in Neroon's hands.  
  
TBC


	2. Section 2

DISCLAIMER: Babylon 5 belongs to JMS. I'm just playing. AUTHOR: Sarai E-MAIL: PAIRING: Marcus/Neroon WARNING: m/m slash, violence RATING: R SPOILERS: Seasons 3 and 4 AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hi, we're getting there. SUMMARY: What if they had met before? TITLE: When it Alteration Finds  
  
Chapter Nine  
  
2248, The Ingata  
  
Marcus found the room that he assumed was meant for Neroon's dra'ma easily enough. Even first officer's quarters weren't that large, and the little space that branched off from the sitting room was the only possibility. It held merely the standard-issue sleeping platform, a tiny closet with a few storage boxes and--thank God--a computer system, but it looked like paradise to Marcus. A place to work where no one would be looking over his shoulder was all he had wanted, but the fact that it was also carpeted was an unexpected bonus. If he had to sleep on the floor, at least it would be more comfortable here than back in his old room.  
  
Marcus moved in within a few minutes, then wondered what he was supposed to do. He wanted to get started working the bugs out of Obsidian, but didn't know when Neroon was planning to show up. Until he found out what the Alyt expected of him and could work out a safe schedule, programming was out.  
  
He wandered into the kitchen and his stomach reminded him that he hadn't eaten. Going to the mess hall was not appealing; the blandness of institutional food seemed a universal constant, and Marcus had already checked the menu. He didn't much relish the idea of facing flavorless noodles and sieki, the latter a bitter herb often used as a seasoning. It was one of the few Minbari dishes that had any taste at all to a human; unfortunately, in its case, that wasn't a good thing. Besides, if he was supposed to be chief cook and bottle washer, he might as well get started. Maybe he could come up with something slightly more palatable.  
  
The problem was that his father, who did most of the cooking in their family since his mother couldn't make toast without burning it, had always favored spicy foods like Italian, Indian, or Martian. As a result, Marcus was afraid that most of the dishes he knew how to make were unlikely to sit well with Minbari taste buds. But then, Neroon had seemed to favor the slightly more highly seasoned dishes from their previous meal, so maybe modifying a few old standbys could work. Assuming, of course, that the Alyt had anything like the necessary ingredients. A couple of minutes' search was enough to show that the kitchen had a well stocked larder--apparently the Alyt shared his opinion of the mess hall-- but Marcus didn't know what many of the items were, and there were no helpful instructions on the packages. He spent the next half hour at the computer, trying to match descriptions with names and uses, and in the process stumbled across a recipe bank. It was broken down by region, and he learned with pleasure that Neroon's area of Minbar was known for a spicy cuisine that sounded like a variation on curry. Marcus grinned as he made a list of the requirements for the best sounding dish; Neroon, thankfully, had them all.  
  
He found himself almost wishing that he could visit Neroon's part of Minbar, which was along the equatorial belt and managed a fairly mild climate for an otherwise cold planet. It had looked a bit like Tuscany from the few photos that accompanied the recipes. He had never thought of the Minbari, who no human had seen other than in space or, rarely, in the Luna detention facility, living in a sun drenched landscape in houses interspersed with arbors of ancient fruit vines, bordered by a coastline that glowed azure under an oddly Sol-type sun. They had always seemed creatures tinted with the colors of space--black like their uniforms or silver gray like their ships. The color and sparkle that looked like a regular part of Neroon's home was difficult to reconcile with most Terran's view of pale, acetic warriors who took little love in anything except killing. Marcus pushed the thoughts away quickly; they were disturbing him, and he needed to keep his attention on what he was doing.  
  
An hour later, Marcus was setting the low table in the sitting room. He'd assumed that was correct since the cabin didn't contain a dining room and the small table was similar to the one Durhan had loaned him. He had manfully resisted the temptation to make his modified curry to his taste, since keeping Neroon happy seemed like the best plan; getting kicked back to his old quarters would not be a favorable turn of events, now that he'd have a roommate. As a result, he'd cut the spices in the dish and taken time arranging the table, which even boasted a few floral cuttings from hydroponics. Ani'es, Neroon's supercilious shai'hat, had delivered them at Marcus' request.  
  
She'd regarded the disheveled Marcus with some disdain when she entered the Alyt's quarters without bothering to signal for admittance. She looked like an advertisement for the perfect Minbari aide--neat, clean and with the requisite superior expression--but then, she hadn't been slaving in the kitchen for over an hour. "They are poisonous if eaten," she warned him, as she handed over the flowers. "It is only after the blossoms have fallen off and the roots fully matured that flarn is safe for consumption." Marcus rolled his eyes and stuck the surprisingly attractive purple blooms in a tall glass, the closest thing he could find to a vase. He sat them on the table as Ani'es looked on curiously.  
  
"They aren't going to be eaten," Marcus told her, rearranging the utilitarian dishes that were all Neroon seemed to possess to make room for the centerpiece.  
  
"Then I fail to see the point," the woman sniffed. Marcus ignored her and went back into the kitchen for his masterpiece. "What is that?!," Ani'es asked in alarm, when he sat the dish of vegetable curry on the table. "You can't expect the Alyt to eat that!," she was obviously horrified. "My eyes are watering from the smell alone!"  
  
"Then don't smell it." Marcus decided that Sorval's reputation for arrogance might need a work out, just to keep him in character. Besides, Ani'es' scorn was getting on his nerves--he'd worked almost an hour on that damned dish, and was rather proud of it.  
  
"Very well," the small aide regarded Marcus with scorn. "But don't blame me if he ends up in Medical!" With what would have been termed a flounce in humans, she left the room, only a few minutes before Neroon arrived.  
  
Marcus regarded his new mentor nervously, hoping that the table, which now also contained a variation on roti bread and several bottles of fruit juice, looked appealing. He hadn't had time to make a second main course, so if Neroon didn't like his offering, he was in trouble. Neroon didn't say anything, however, just nodded a greeting before retreating to his bedroom. Marcus looked after him anxiously; had Ani'es caught him in the hallway and warned him off the food? After a few moments, however, he reappeared, still dressed in his uniform but without the body armor and heavy boots. It didn't make much of a difference, physique wise; Neroon still looked like he was carved out of solid rock. Marcus had a flashback to the sensation of being crushed against the sleeping platform the night before and shivered. He stamped down on the feeling without trying to name it; whatever it was, it wasn't what he needed to be thinking about right now.  
  
"I thought you might like to avoid the mess hall tonight," Marcus offered, "they're serving flarn noodles again."  
  
Neroon nodded, seating himself at the table silently. Marcus supposed he should be grateful that no repeat of the previous night's seduction seemed on the menu, but Neroon's complete silence soon began to bother him. He caught the Alyt glancing at him with an odd expression several times as they ate, but couldn't read it. At least he seemed to like the food; most of the curry was quickly disposed of, and there was no comment on its spiciness. Marcus wished he didn't feel so nervous and could properly enjoy it; it was the first meal that hadn't tasted like hospital food since he'd arrived.  
  
In the end, Neroon merely thanked him for the meal, and disappeared into his inner sanctum, leaving Marcus with no instructions as to how to fill his evening. He carted off the dishes for cleaning, then regarded the empty sitting room with bemusement. All right, so maybe Neroon was tired and would explain Marcus' duties later. At least that left him the night free to wrestle with Obsidian, assuming he could stay awake. Marcus stifled a yawn, and went to his room, hoping he'd been found satisfactory.  
  
Neroon regarded the holo picture on his bookshelf with more than usual interest. It was the best of the few images he still had of Tallier, and was prized for the fact that his uncle had taken it at a family gathering, insuring that Neroon had been able to be in the image as well. He and Tallier still bore the grass stains from an impromptu wrestling match with some of Neroon's young cousins, but had their arms around each other and were smiling in blissful ignorance of the blow fate had in store only a few years away. Tallier was still sober in the photo, although he'd unwisely begun smoking a local herb with Neroon's mother a short time afterwards and had to be pulled out from under a table and carried home by his amused lover some time later. The family matriarch, who grew the noxious and completely illegal herb in her garden, could handle it; everyone else had long ago learned to refuse politely.  
  
It had been a test, of course. The shameless old woman had, once Tallier was hopelessly intoxicated, proceeded to quiz him mercilessly about his feelings for her only son. Neroon had sighed and let her get on with it, knowing that a rescue would only postpone the inevitable. His mother was less than pleased at the thought of no grandchildren, and was itching to find a reason to withhold her blessing. As long as the union had been unofficial, she had been willing to turn a blind eye, assuming Neroon would eventually move on and provide the required heir. He had learned to simply ignore the various comments she made about eligible young women, and to decline with thanks any dinner parties obviously designed to show off the latest of his mother's protégés. When he and Tallier had decided to make their alliance official, he had known exactly how well it was likely to sit with his mother.  
  
It had been with considerable amusement and not a little relief, then, that Neroon had accepted her grudging agreement to the union. As he draped the unconscious Tallier over his shoulder, she poked him in the stomach with her walking stick, her usual way of getting his attention. "That's a good boy," she said crossly, as if he had deliberately picked out someone with whom it was impossible to find fault. "Perhaps, he has sisters?"  
  
"No mother." Neroon had regarded her fondly.  
  
"Oh, very well, then. You always do as you like anyway," she had groused, and tapped Tallier on the backside with the head of her cane. "But he needs to learn to manage his sabrack better. I'll send him some." She had, too, and Tallier, despite Neroon's complaints, had smoked it all. The house had reeked for weeks.  
  
No, Neroon told himself sternly as he replaced the picture, it couldn't be.  
  
He forced himself to go through his nightly routine, cleaning his skin and polishing the intricate ridges in his crest, which, due to static from the ship's air filtration system, always looked dusty if not properly maintained. He wasn't really concentrating on the task, however, but was thinking back to that shocking meal. It must have been Durhan who had told the boy. He seemed determined to throw Neroon together with young Sorval, so that would make sense. Except that Neroon could not remember discussing his lover in any depth with Durhan, or, for that matter, anyone else on the Ingata. Had the master called Minbar and asked close family members about his relationship? He couldn't imagine his friend breaking protocol to that degree, but if he hadn't, what was the answer? How had Sorval known?  
  
Neroon had felt off balance for several days with the alarming speed with which the skinny young Kathui had gotten under his skin. The memories that he usually kept resolutely locked away kept intruding onto his consciousness, no matter how he tried to concentrate on other things. One in particular kept coming to mind, the engagement dinner he'd shared long ago with his lover. That had been before Tallier had managed to teach him basic cooking skills, and Neroon had suggested that they go out to eat to celebrate. Tallier had cheekily remarked that he couldn't do what he planned with Neroon if they were sitting in the middle of a restaurant, and offered to cook instead. He had made a traditional, highly spiced dish common in Neroon's family that he knew was a personal favorite; he had also insisted on draping the table and festooning the arbor where they dined with flowers, to make it look more festive, he'd said. Thereafter, every year they had the same meal as a celebration, and the colorful flarn blooms, so attractive and easy to come by, had always graced the table. Every single year.  
  
But those dinners were private, and putting flarn blossoms on an eating table was not a common Minbari custom. Indeed, Neroon didn't know anyone else who did it. It had been one of his and Tallier's inside jokes, and he doubted his mala had shared the information with anyone. How, then, had Sorval known? Had it just been coincidence? Neroon's orderly mind rejected that thought--the dish, perhaps, could have been simply an elegant way of paying homage to his clan, and the fact that he liked it was no secret. Neroon had cooked a very mild version several times for his old master, who had never failed to complain that he was trying to roast him and pointedly drank two carafes of juice all on his own thereafter. Durhan would have remembered the dish, but the flowers--they could not also be a coincidence, could they?  
  
Neroon moved to his private comm unit and linked to the ship's main computer. He brought up the records on his dra'ma, and found, as he'd suspected, that the boy was very young. Still, he had already been the pride of his old father's heart for almost four cycles by the time Tallier was killed. The ridiculous idea that Neroon had briefly entertained at dinner, that this was a rare case of his lover returning to him, was therefore impossible.  
  
The souls of the departed were, of course, eventually reborn into new bodies as everyone knew. But this process was believed to take quite a while after death, the religious theorists guessing centuries on average. A popular plot device in the romantic novels his mother regularly devoured had lovers reunited after the death of one when the departed was reborn, but Neroon had never heard of such a thing actually happening. And the odds of them meeting again even if it did were astronomical, considering that there were over four billion Minbari. In any case, it certainly hadn't occurred this time, for Sorval's birth date precluded the possibility. It was a mystery, and Neroon hated mysteries. As a warrior, he was well aware that anything he didn't know could end up hurting him, and usually insured that unexplained facts surrounding the running of his ship were carefully investigated. In this case, he would have far preferred to let the issue drop, but the commander in him couldn't do it.  
  
He found it hard to believe that Tyamer had sent his son there deliberately to seduce him, but an alliance between their two clans would give the crafty old man considerable power. And Tyamer had the cunning and the resources to investigate Neroon's background, and possibly to bribe his or Tallier's family servants into revealing private information. Neroon didn't like the feeling that he was a pawn in Tyamer's political maneuverings, nor that he was being played for a fool by the callow youth in the next room. His lover returned? He thought not. The boy might have been coached to mimic a few of Tallier's habits, but whoever had done so had obviously been a poor planner. That slip with the birthday was careless, something Neroon himself would never have overlooked. He decided that, come the morning, he'd see exactly how good the boy's knowledge of his old lover was, and if it turned out that someone was actually trying to use Tallier's death for political purposes, Neroon would personally space them.  
  
Chapter Ten  
  
2261, The Ingata  
  
Marcus had known that his conversation with Neroon was going to be difficult; the fact that the low dining table in the Shi Alyt's quarters was set with their engagement dinner, complete with flowers, merely confirmed the fact. Irony was a strong Minbari trait, and Neroon had always been gifted with an overabundance of it. However, nothing Marcus had anticipated could have prepared him for the discussion that accompanied dinner. It was easily the strangest he had ever had and, considering that he included a surreal talk with Kosh in the list, that was saying something.  
  
Marcus had assumed that, since Neroon had just encountered him in his real form, he would immediately see through the synthaskin. He'd only worn it to get past the Ingata's guards, not in any hopes of reprising his masquerade with the Shi Alyt. But it was soon apparent that Neroon still did not equate Sorval with Marcus, making explanations even more complicated than he'd expected. He toyed with his food and tried to think how to phrase things to at least get a hearing before Neroon decided to finish what he'd begun in Down Below.  
  
"How old are you?" Neroon surprised him by suddenly asking. Of all the questions Marcus had expected, that hadn't been one of them. He looked at Neroon blankly as the Minbari continued. "Because, of course, I know that you aren't the real Sorval. After your "death," I went to personally give Tyamer an account of how you had perished. It was my duty to my dra'ma, and also a courtesy to another clan leader. There were several very fine pictures of his son in his study. I recognized immediately that I had never before met that Sorval. It was . . . quite a shock."  
  
"Er, yes, I suppose so." Marcus noticed the slight pulse that beat at Neroon's temple. It was a sign of suppressed emotion, but what kind? The idea that he could actually have mourned him was ludicrous; Neroon had considered him a convenience and possibly a political tool, nothing more. Was it anger, then, that was upsetting the Shi Alyt? Rage at being duped? Marcus thought it would be highly ironic to be killed for being Sorval rather than himself. Ironic, but perhaps fitting. It was, after all, as Sorval that he'd betrayed him.  
  
"So I ask again, how old are you?"  
  
Marcus wondered why Neroon wasn't asking what seemed the far more relevant questions of who he was and how he'd managed to return from the dead, but decided to be grateful for the reprieve. "I was born in 2226, so I'm just over 25 cycles. May I ask why you wish to know?"  
  
Neroon simply sat, inscrutable except for that tell tale pulse. Even Marcus, who had long ago learned to gage Minbari emotions from subtle clues, noticed nothing except for a slight tightening of Neroon's hand on his spoon. Marcus knew, of course, that his age made him extremely young for a Minbari, although he would be 35 Earth years old on his next birthday. Twelve years ago, if he were actually a Minbari youth, he should still have been in training, not posted to a battleship in a war zone. Marcus tried to concentrate on what was possibly his last meal, but found that he had no taste for it. How long could it be before Neroon figured out the obvious?  
  
"Twenty-five." Neroon said at last. "Then you were only 16 when you took Sorval's place?"  
  
Marcus did a quick calculation. Each Minbari cycle was about 1.35 Earth years, so 16 was approximately 21 and a half. "Yes."  
  
Neroon pushed his plate away. He was definitely not happy about something. Marcus couldn't see, under the circumstances, what possible difference his age made, either then or now. But, in any case, he couldn't wait around, hoping that a diplomatic way of mentioning the threat to the fleet would emerge. He'd just have to chance it that Neroon would hear him out.  
  
"I, er, came to discuss an important matter, Shi Alyt," he began and, when Neroon didn't stop him, rushed ahead with the basic explanation he had given Garibaldi. Leaving out the little point that he had been the one to infect the fleet in the first place, he told Neroon only what he had to know to locate the virus. The information was going to seem fantastic enough on its own; there was no need to add embellishments until they were demanded. "This is a copy of Obsidian, with the activation code attached." Marcus handed over the crystal when he finished. Again ironically, it was one of many that had been mined on Minbar. Neroon took it, but said nothing. Marcus swallowed and ploughed on. "The idea was to wait until all the ships that were deployed to attack Earth had been infected before activating the virus; otherwise, it would have been discovered and possibly counteracted before the battle. I don't know how the secret leaked," Marcus added truthfully, "but if it is purged from your systems, the code will be useless."  
  
"Why give this to me?," Neroon inquired calmly, as if he hadn't just been told that the entire fleet was about to be used for target practice by Raiders.  
  
"The war is over," Marcus replied, wondering what was going on behind those dark eyes. "Earth and Minbar are allies now."  
  
"I meant why me specifically, instead of Shakiri; he would be the more obvious choice, would he not?"  
  
"Er, perhaps, but you're here." And, Marcus thought, how he could have managed to obtain an audience with the Warrior Caste leader boggled the mind.  
  
"And you knew I would listen to you."  
  
Marcus' hadn't been certain of anything of the kind. One's dead lover did not often drop by for dinner, after all. He'd imagined many possibilities for this meeting, but the current eerily calm conversation hadn't been one of them. "I'd hoped you would. If you find Obsidian on the Ingata, it will be easier to persuade Shakiri to authorize a general search."  
  
"You seem certain we will find it. An Earther gave you this information?"  
  
"You could say that." Certainly, Intel was composed of 'Earthers,' Marcus thought, trying to screw up the courage to simply remove the costume. Neroon had the crystal and the explanation. Seeing Marcus as he really was could only confirm that infecting the Ingata had indeed been possible.  
  
"You trust your contact?" Neroon was starting to really worry Marcus. Where was the passionate, contemptuous warrior who had all but destroyed him a week ago?  
  
"My information is correct," Marcus assured him. Before he could do or say anything else, Neroon nodded, rose, and went to the comm station. While Marcus watched in disbelief, he sent the crystal's information to his Alyt, along with orders to begin the search for the virus immediately.  
  
"I assume your contact is the Ranger Marcus Cole," Neroon said, settling again opposite him. "I have reason also to respect his word. He is . . . unusual . . . for an Earther." Neroon glanced at the pike that was now back on Marcus' belt. "Did you give him that?"  
  
Marcus took a drink and tried to calm himself. All right, this was it. "In a way. I don't exactly know where to begin . . . "  
  
Neroon held up a hand, forestalling Marcus' words. "No. You don't need to explain. It was yours to do with as you wished. And perhaps it is best this way." His expression softened for an instant. "You are so very young."  
  
Marcus was becoming seriously confused. Neroon soon added to that feeling when he went on to lecture 'Sorval' on the dangers of impersonating another. "If the real Kathui heir had not been captured and detained, you would have been found out almost immediately and sent home in disgrace. Despite what you may have believed, we would not have allowed you to stay on board, especially not at such an age, despite your abilities. I know how it is," he commented, as Marcus' mouth dropped open in shock. "You wanted to serve our people and, like many of the young ones in my own clan, were afraid the war would end before your training was complete. You were not the only one to misrepresent your age during the conflict."  
  
Marcus stared at him, unable to believe that he might actually be getting a reprieve. Could Neroon really not see the truth, even when it sat across the table from him? Marcus shifted, and the tight dressings Stephen had applied to his ribs to keep them inert caused a flash of pain; he hardly noticed it. By God, did he actually have a chance to walk out of here alive? He started to think fast; he'd need a cover story, and Neroon was nothing if not perceptive.  
  
"I assume you work with the Rangers now?"  
  
"Yes, that's right." Marcus was relieved that the Shi Alyt had not managed to become Entil'Zha, and therefore did not have Ranger records at his command. The lie should hold up.  
  
"And I assume that is where you met Cole? You trained together at Tuzanor?"  
  
"Yes," Marcus saw Neroon's surprise at the brevity of his answer, and quickly added, "but he didn't think you'd accept the information on Obsidian if it came from him or Delenn."  
  
"He was probably correct." Neroon smiled slightly at Marcus' stiffness. "You can relax, 'Sorval,' I am not going to ask your name or clan affiliation. The war was a difficult time for all of us, and many made decisions they have since had reason to regret, or at least to re-examine. I do not intend to prosecute you over something long since over. You have a new life now; be happy in it."  
  
Neroon kept to his word not to ask about his identity; instead, he focused on Marcus' time as a Ranger for the rest of the conversation. It surprised Marcus no end to discover that Neroon believed him to be involved in a romantic relationship with his alter ego, and thought that he had given "Cole" the pike for the same reason that Neroon had once made a gift of it to him. By then, however, the discussion had become so surreal that Marcus simply nodded and played along, feeling too numb with shock to even laugh at the absurdity of it all.  
  
The only question that gave him any real trouble was the method he'd used to disappear from the Ingata during the Battle of the Line. He stuck with the story Neroon seemed to already believe: that when his section of the ship had been hit, he'd been trapped and unable to get anywhere except to a life pod, and that Earth Force had picked him up soon after he ejected. It had the advantage of being partially true--he had left in a pod--and the only embroidery required was that he'd gone back to Minbar after finally being released and later joined the Rangers under his real name.  
  
By the time Neroon put him in his personal shuttle to return to Babylon 5, Marcus' head was throbbing with the strain of keeping his story straight and he was almost dizzy with relief. He had been fully prepared to die if necessary--one death in exchange for saving the entire Minbari fleet did not sound like a bad trade, even if it was his own--but he was deliriously glad to have been spared. Not that he had much of a life by most people's standards, he supposed, with no family, few friends and a non-existent love life, but he was fond of it. Despite what some people seemed to believe, he did not have a death wish. He was willing to die in a good cause, all Rangers were or they never made it past Sech Turval's probing questions, but he preferred to stay alive to do something worthwhile and atone for the many mistakes of his past. And, he thought in quiet exaltation, his work that day had made up for a lot.  
  
2261, Babylon 5  
  
"I need to speak with Sorval." Neroon's face on the comm unit surprised Marcus. His last words had sounded like a farewell that was intended to be permanent, and he had not so much as asked for a way to contact him later.  
  
Marcus tried to sit up to see the vid screen better, but gave up after a moment. He was back in Med Lab because Stephen had shown up at his room with a phalanx of orderlies and kidnapped him a few hours after his return to the station. Marcus had pointed out that the doctor had woken him from a sound sleep only to drag him off to a much less comfortable bed and stuff him full of sleeping pills, which seemed a waste of resources. Stephen hadn't bothered to lecture him or even to respond. However, Susan's ruined handcuffs had been replaced by enough medical restraints to keep down a couple of enraged Narns, and the nurses and orderlies were under strict instructions not to bring him so much as a glass of water without the doctor's explicit permission.  
  
"Well, I'm a little tied up at the moment, Neroon." Marcus lifted his head, the only part of him that was actually able to move, and managed to glimpse Neroon's sober expression. "But I can probably get a message to him, if it is urgent."  
  
"It is. Tell him," Neroon paused, and Marcus could see him struggling to stay calm, an obvious change from his previous attitude, "that the item was not found. But two more ships have . . . had problems such as we spoke of. Tell him that he must contact me immediately!"  
  
Marcus stared at the face on the viewer, which looked slightly haggard. It didn't look like Neroon had slept since their meeting two days before, not that he blamed him. Two more Minbari ships had been destroyed, yet Obsidian had not been found on the Ingata? That was impossible; Marcus knew damned well that, of all the ships in the fleet, Neroon's was definitely infected.  
  
"I'll see what I can do," he promised, wondering what could have possibly gone wrong, and how he was going to escape Med Lab this time.  
  
"This is getting to be a bad habit." Zac had waited until the nefarious looking Brackiri finished relaying his message and slipped into the darkness before approaching Marcus. He almost hadn't recognized him since the Ranger had shaved and was wearing a scruffy set of casuals instead of his uniform. "I do have other duties than stalking you, you know."  
  
Actually, Zac wasn't at all displeased that Marcus was proving so hard for Stephen to keep locked down. The doc had been desperate enough to get Delenn off his back to offer Zac a nice little bonus if he dragged Marcus back to MedLab before her scheduled visit, and he could almost taste the steak already. He could only afford real, Earth raised beef a couple times a year on his salary, as the stuff was rare these days even planetside, and when you tagged on the shipping fees to Bab5 it was almost literally worth its weight in gold. But Stephen made a lot more than he did, and the doc kept his promises.  
  
"Come on, let's go. I hear there's a nice Rebo and Zootie film on in a few minutes. You don't wanna miss that, right?" If Marcus heard him, it wasn't obvious. "Hey, I'm talking, here." Zac watched in surprise as Marcus completely ignored him, and started off down the corridor, muttering to himself. "Hey!" He caught up with him at the turbo lifts. "Did the doc over medicate you or what?"  
  
"I'm fine." Marcus tried to shift away from his hold, but Zac was having none of it.  
  
"Great, then you won't mind Franklin verifying that. He offered to buy me dinner if I got you back in less than an hour and," Zac checked his chronometer, "I think we can just make it."  
  
"I'm not going back. I have plans to make."  
  
"Sure. Tell it to the doc."  
  
"Let him go, Zac."  
  
Zac glanced over his shoulder to see Garibaldi approaching. Good, he could use reinforcement. "Franklin said to drag him back, by the hair if necessary." Zac regarded Marcus' knit cap, which fitted a little too close for someone with as much hair as the Ranger usually had. "Not that that looks possible at the moment, but hey, I'm adaptable."  
  
"I need to talk to Marcus; I'll deal with Stephen."  
  
"Yeah, but Chief, he promised me steak." Zac tried not to whine, but it came through anyway.  
  
"Marcus owes you dinner, then."  
  
Zac sighed. He doubted the Ranger was likely to be able to afford anything better than spoo, which Zac could definitely live without, but arguing with the Chief when he was in a mood was a waste of time. "As long as you get him back before Franklin starts yelling at me over the comm," Zac relented, and watched his steak evaporate into wishful thinking as Garibaldi frog marched Marcus onto the elevator and the doors shut in his face. Life wasn't fair.  
  
Chapter Eleven  
  
2248, The Ingata  
  
Marcus regarded the tube of oil in his hand with foreboding. It's just a massage, he reminded himself for the tenth time. A nice, platonic massage; nothing to get upset about. He had almost managed to calm down when Neroon came out of the bedroom attired only in a towel. A very small towel.  
  
"No special instruction," he told Marcus as he climbed onto the padded table that had been erected in the living room. "However you're accustomed to do it will be fine."  
  
Marcus swallowed and approached the powerful Minbari frame laid out before him. Neroon's was a reasonable enough request; they had had a hard workout and both landed on the practice mat more than once. It was fairly normal to receive a massage from a regular sparring partner, and Marcus had seen numerous examples in the changing rooms of the gymnasium in the last week. Plus, as Neroon's dra'ma, he supposed it was his job. So why did he feel so odd about it?  
  
There had been no repeat of the events of their disastrous dinner date since he moved in. In fact, in the two days since becoming Neroon's aide, Marcus had actually seen less of him than before, and the few times when he had, the First had been completely proper. The attraction he'd previously evidenced must have been a result of the drug; either that, or he felt it improper to proposition his dra'ma. His request was unlikely to be the beginning of a seduction, then, especially as it didn't seem like Neroon's usual manner of proceeding. If their one encounter was anything to go by, subtlety wasn't his style.  
  
Neroon glanced over his shoulder, and Marcus realized that to hesitate any longer would look strange. All right, then. Nothing to it, he told himself, as he poured some of the oil Durhan had recommended, which-- surprise--was derived from flarn blossoms, onto his hands and began to rub it in. He thought that, if Earth had only known how dependant the Minbari were on the plant, they could have ended the war simply by infecting the crops and throwing the planet's whole economy into chaos.  
  
"I won't break," Neroon commented after a few minutes, and Marcus increased the pressure. The problem was that, whatever he did, it probably felt like a gentle pat to the Minbari. Like most of his people, who had developed heavier bones and musculature to deal with the slightly greater gravity on their world, Neroon was powerfully built. His naturally strong frame had been sculpted and hardened by years of regular exercise and Warrior Caste training regimens, to the point that, if he had a physical flaw, Marcus couldn't see it. A Narn might have made a good masseuse for him, but Marcus was having problems. It didn't help that his hands seemed to like stroking the skin of the Alyt's back, enjoying the unique satin-over-steel feel of the man, and he had to constantly remind himself to press harder. It was also a problem that his brain kept providing him with a number of disturbing images of more interesting things he could be doing with the body currently under his control.  
  
The whole thing was disconcerting to Marcus who, prior to this trip, had never thought of a male as a sexual object. And he'd had plenty of opportunities: one of his best friends on Arisia had made his interest clear, as had several fellow operatives in Intel. Marcus had turned them down gently and not given much thought to the matter. He hadn't felt any attraction, unlike in the case of a few girls he had known, and had therefore assumed that he preferred women. Now, however, he was beginning to wonder if maybe his lack of interest had been less because of their gender than the fact that he found them boring personally. Marcus had expected to learn things about himself on this mission, but reevaluating his sexuality hadn't been one of them.  
  
Of course, he decided, part of the problem might be that Neroon was obviously experienced, and had known exactly how to excite a partner. Marcus' previous love interests, such as they were, had naturally expected him to take charge, which he had done without a great deal of skill. There had been no such expectation on Neroon's part, and Marcus' very insubordinate brain had been running replays of those breathless few minutes in the Alyt's bedroom on a continuous loop for two days. At the time, he'd been too surprised to fully appreciate the experience, but his excellent memory seemed intent on remedying that fact.  
  
It wasn't fair, Marcus thought resentfully. If he had to be taken as someone's dra'ma, why couldn't it have been by Branmer or Durhan, neither of whom provoked this sort of response? No, it had to be Neroon. And, taken objectively, anyone would have to agree that the Alyt was beautiful. Not handsome, for that word had connotations for Marcus that were all associated with humans, and therefore didn't seem to fit Neroon at all. Beautiful seemed more appropriate somehow, as one might describe an unusually well designed art object, even of alien make, in a museum or gallery. With his pale skin tone, he actually looked rather like a marble statue, perhaps something Michelangelo might have done about the time he carved those two powerfully built slaves for Julius' tomb. The resemblance was heightened since Neroon's head was turned away so that Marcus couldn't see his expressive brown eyes. Until, that was, Neroon shifted to regard him with a slight frown.  
  
"Have you not done this before?"  
  
Marcus wondered how he had messed up now. "Er, not often. We had servants . . . "  
  
"I see. Then you shall have to learn, for I refuse to have a dra'ma who cannot give a simple massage." He hopped off the table. "Lay down."  
  
Marcus almost panicked, but caught himself before he said anything stupid. "I feel fine. Really. No soreness at all." That was a lie, but he'd have said almost anything to avoid getting on that table. The idea of Neroon's hands on him, especially at the moment, fell under the category of Extremely Bad Idea.  
  
"I cannot instruct you properly in words alone," Neroon said impatiently, "get up." His tone clearly said that he would brook no argument, and Marcus slowly did as he was told. He wasn't sure what worried him more, that the synthaskin might feel different from normal Minbari skin to Neroon, or that he might enjoy the massage a little too much.  
  
He didn't worry for long, since Neroon began a professional massage that made thinking about anything difficult. Marcus tried to concentrate on absorbing the instructions he was being given, knowing that he'd be expected to return the favor shortly, but found it far easier to imagine what else he'd like those talented hands to be doing. Especially after Neroon made an annoyed sound and tugged Marcus' shirt off.  
  
There was nothing particularly sensuous about the hands on his back, and technically, they weren't even touching him, but the damned synthaskin was not much of a barrier. Marcus bit his lip and tried to think about other things. He was absolutely not lying there getting excited from the touch of a man who would snap his neck in an instant if he knew who he really was. Unfortunately, that thought only resulted in an increase in the amount of blood heading south. Great, Marcus thought in despair; perfect time to learn that he was a little kinky. Seemed quite the day for revelations.  
  
"You are very tense." Neroon sounded slightly concerned. "And you need to eat more. You are far too thin."  
  
"It's due to a growth spurt," Marcus gave the prepared answer without much thought. God, Neroon was good at this! "I added several inches recently."  
  
"You had better bulk up before your next physical, or Tranus will have you on supplements, and I should warn you, they are NOT palatable."  
  
"I'll remember that." Neroon's large hands made quick work of the knots that had developed from too much tension and too many nights of sleeping on hard floors. Marcus felt like most of his bones had liquefied by the time Neroon finally released him. He managed to slide off the table, catching the side to keep from stumbling, but to his surprise, the Alyt folded up the platform without requesting a continuance of his own abortive massage.  
  
"I'm going to prepare dinner." Neroon shot Marcus a stern glance. "And you will eat all of it."  
  
Marcus nodded, before dragging the table back into the nearby closet. Then he hurried to his room and took care of a pressing problem. Wonderful: mission complication #1,212: he was officially attracted to the man he was working as hard as possible to destroy. That was one thing for which Intel had neglected to prepare him, and he had absolutely no idea what to do about it.  
  
Neroon chopped vegetables with enough force to keep embedding the knife in the plasticine carving board. Sorval had passed every test he could devise, evidencing that he had been well coached for his role by someone. One or two coincidences Neroon might have written off, but not seven. So far, the boy had liked and disliked all the same foods as Tallier; when given a choice, he had repeatedly picked Tallier's favorite music from a selection of dozens of other choices; he used some of the same, unorthodox defense maneuvers when sparring; and he even preferred the same massage oil! Neroon was NOT going to fall into the trap of pitying a boy who was almost certainly attempting to manipulate him to forward his father's schemes.  
  
Still, it was his responsibility to insure the well being of his dra'ma, and Sorval undoubtedly had serious physical problems. For Valen's sake, he'd been able to count every rib, and had worried that he might accidentally do the boy damage by a simple massage! Why was Tyamer's heir in such poor shape? Surely a growth spurt couldn't have resulted in such fragile bones; Neroon knew women who had a stronger build. Sorval looked like he had been starved over a long period, probably during his formative years, which brought up questions of exactly how Tyamer had trained the young man. Surely, he would not abuse his own heir, but Neroon could think of nothing else that would explain such a weak frame. Perhaps illness might do so--Neroon was no doctor, so could not be sure--but there had been nothing in Sorval's file to indicate a problem, and it was odd that Tyamer would have let the boy take up duties if he were in need of medical attention. Of course, the old man had kept putting it off, something Neroon had previously put down to a selfish wish to keep his heir with him as long as possible. Now he wondered.  
  
As much as Neroon hated the thought, Tranus really should take a look at Sorval. But the doctor was unlikely to allow any of the other physicians to examine Tyamer's heir, and he had never heard the word discretion in his life. If Sorval was indeed ill, or worse, if he had been abused, there was little chance of Tranus keeping that information to himself. Half the ship would know within an hour, and that was simply unacceptable. Whatever problems young Sorval had, they would not be helped by knowing that the entire ship was privy to his personal affairs. Plus, if word reached his father, Tyamer might realize that his son's mission had failed and call the boy home, and that was something Neroon could not allow. Not when he didn't know what punishment Sorval might face for failure.  
  
Neroon would simply have to address the problem himself. The war complicated matters, but fortunately it would soon be at an end. The Earthers would likely make a final stand, as he would have done in their place, but there was no doubt of the outcome. As soon as it was over, Neroon would see to it that one of the clan physicians was brought on board to examine Sorval in secret, and together they would make a plan for his recovery. And if he had been starved or abused, Neroon would find a way to make sure that Tyamer never had a chance to do it again.  
  
Chapter Twelve  
  
2261, Babylon 5  
  
"So what's the deal?" Michael wasn't looking pleased. "I thought Neroon was taking care of the mess with the fleet and you were gonna stay put in MedLab. Then I wake up to find that half the messages on the security net are possible sightings of one Marcus Cole, Ranger escape artist extraordinaire. What gives?"  
  
"You don't want to know." Marcus sat on a chair in Garibaldi's rooms and almost wished he was back in MedLab having his brains fried by mindless fluff on the vid system. It was a hell of a lot better than what awaited him. How, exactly, had he managed to screw up his life this badly? And why did his cock ups always seem to take others down with them?  
  
"Try me." Michael sat a mug of something in front of Marcus. Considering where they were, he doubted it was anything stronger than coffee and ignored it.  
  
"Neroon called me, wanting to talk to 'Sorval.' Seems he couldn't find Obsidian anywhere on the Ingata, but two more Sharlin class cruisers have been attacked and destroyed in the last two days."  
  
"You're right, I didn't want to know. So what now?"  
  
"At a guess, either Obsidian is being shielded somehow from scans--unlikely since I told them exactly what to look for--or someone managed to get another virus in place. Technically," Marcus mused, "if Obsidian had already infiltrated the Minbari systems, another virus could have been uploaded by piggybacking it onto the activation signal. Obsidian might have provided a chink in the armor of the Minbari shielding, acting like a conduit into their core computer. But that doesn't explain why Obsidian itself doesn't show up on the scans." Marcus felt indescribably weary, was he never going to see the last of that damned program? "I have to go to the source of the problem, to the people who sold the Raiders the activation code, and see if I can find out what's going on. And that means going to Olare."  
  
Michael stared at him. "I know I didn't just hear that."  
  
"If you have a better suggestion, please let me know," Marcus told him fervently. The last time he'd been to Hell, which was what the Centauri name for the place meant, he'd promised himself never to return. He'd been surprised to get out alive, and hadn't intended on tempting fate quite that much again. So much for promises.  
  
"You can't. No one gets near that place. No one in their right minds even wants to!"  
  
"Rangers do. At least, a few of us have." Marcus grimaced. "We don't make a habit of it, but occasionally it's been necessary."  
  
"Right. Ok." Michael seemed to be having a hard time putting his thoughts together, but Marcus couldn't help him. He, too, became a little incoherent at the thought of Olare, and going in his current condition wasn't a good idea. Actually, going in any condition would fall under the category of criminally insane in most people's books. Maybe he really did have a death wish, or maybe the universe was out to get him. It certainly felt that way lately. "And I assume you aren't telling anybody where you're going, or taking back up."  
  
"I'm telling you." Marcus drained the cup--he'd been right, it was only coffee--and tried to muster up a smile for Michael. "Don't worry, Chief; I survived the place before, I can do it again. But even if I don't, it's comforting to know that you'll be here to carry valiantly on in my stead."  
  
"Oh, that's just great." Michael looked seriously annoyed. "Delenn already looks at me like I crawled out from under a rock. I can't wait to hear what she says when I tell her . . . "  
  
"You aren't telling her anything!" Marcus grabbed Garibaldi's arm. "Promise me! She'd never let me go, and there's no one else who can do this."  
  
"I thought you said Rangers, as in plural, had been there. Why not send one of the others with experience? One who wasn't used for a punching bag recently?" Michael's eyes widened at the look on Marcus' face. "No way. Do NOT tell me you were the only one to make it back."  
  
"The Raiders don't treat spies awfully well," Marcus admitted. "But I managed it before." He tried not to think just how close his escape had been.  
  
"Wonderful. So pretty soon now I can explain to Delenn how you ended up dead because I didn't lock you down in Medlab. What, do you hate me or something? You know, I haven't had steak in a while, either . . . "  
  
"Very funny."  
  
"I'm not joking. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't turn you over to Stephen and have half a dozen security guards posted to watch you around the clock. Walking into a death trap isn't going to help solve this mess!"  
  
"Neither is sitting on my arse in MedLab! Michael," Marcus reminded himself that Garibaldi didn't have his background, and therefore didn't know exactly how bad Obsidian, or another virus like it, could be. "If the Raiders gain control of the technology and wealth of Minbar and turn on the other races, it could be years and millions of deaths before they're contained. I won't have that on my conscience. Not knowing I might have prevented it. I won't!"  
  
"Marcus . . . "  
  
"And think how you'll feel, when the other planets withdraw their ships from the station, to defend their own home worlds, and then the Raiders come for us. This is as much about Babylon 5 security as it is about Minbar's, don't forget that."  
  
"If I had, we wouldn't be having this conversation now."  
  
"Then cut the lecture and help me."  
  
"It isn't going to be easy." Marcus indicated the impenetrable asteroid belt with a flourish. He and Neroon were in Astrometrics on the Ingata. Marcus was back in the hated Sorval guise both because it had helped him to avoid Stephen and because, as far as Neroon knew, Marcus Cole was lying incapacitated in MedLab. "The base has avoided detection for so long because of the unique attributes of the asteroid belt that surrounds it. It's one of the densest on record, to the point that even a Sharlin class cruiser trying to force its way through would be pulverized long before it reached its mark."  
  
"Then how does anyone approach?"  
  
"They don't." Marcus traced a thin red line showing the orbit of a large asteroid. "Olare follows an elliptical orbit, which takes it to the edge of the field on the tenth day of the cycle. There's about an hour when it is relatively near open space and can be accessed, if you're someone who isn't considered a threat. Otherwise, the defense grid on the base will scatter your atoms faster than the asteroids. After that brief window closes, it is completely cut off from access for the next ten days."  
  
"Impressive. I am surprised Raiders would be able to think of such a thing."  
  
Marcus shrugged. "They didn't. At its height, the Centauri Empire had spread that far, and they created the original base. The area was too far from Centauri Prime to be patrolled easily, so the outpost was made as inaccessible to attack as possible. The idea was that, if threatened, it would be able to hold out until a squadron could be sent to reinforce it. The Centauri used it as a monitoring station for the surrounding systems for several centuries, then abandoned it when they began to retreat. The Raiders soon took it over, and its been one of their main bases ever since."  
  
"And we have to infiltrate it."  
  
"Afraid so." Marcus leaned against the computer projecting the grid and sighed. "It's been done, but it won't be easy. Especially for us. Minbari will stick out on the station, as there are only a small number of us engaged in illicit activities, and most of them are well known. But Marcus has been there once before. We should let him deal with this."  
  
"It is a Minbari matter," Neroon objected, as Marcus had feared he would. "No Earther, even a Ranger, should be involved in something so important to Minbari security."  
  
So much for Neroon's revelation. "I assure you, he can be trusted, and he has contacts that we don't." Marcus was getting used to speaking of himself in the third person, he only hoped Neroon wasn't going to insist on coming along. There was no way his disguise would hold up to long-term exposure to Neroon's sharp eyes. The fact that it had done so this long was a source of continual amazement.  
  
"I do not doubt his ability, only his right to be involved. The Earthers set this plague on us in the beginning; do you really think the council will authorize leaving its containment in the hands of one of them?"  
  
"Then I'll go with him," Marcus immediately volunteered. "I'm not as well known as you, and will have an easier time pretending to be a rogue. I can say that I was one of those who disagreed with the peace and wants to see war break out again between Minbar and Earth. If it becomes known that the attacks on our ships are from an Earth virus, renewed hostilities might be possible."  
  
"The Ranger Cole is still in their medical facility. He could not even sit up to take my message earlier--he cannot take on a mission of any magnitude for some time. You forget, Earthers are more fragile than we are, and they heal more slowly."  
  
Marcus sighed inwardly. Thanks again, Stephen. The doctor had probably filled Neroon's head with stories of 'Cole's' many injuries in order to make him feel guilty. "He is actually well on the way to recovery," Marcus said, and didn't even need to lie about it. Half of Stephen's insistence on keeping him under wraps was to win the little power struggle that had been going on between them for years. All doctors had a tyrannical streak in their make up, but Marcus had never been one to pander to it. Despite Stephen's prognostications of gloom, Marcus was over the worst of the injuries Neroon had inflicted, although he'd be at less than optimal fighting capacity for some time. Of course, hopefully that wouldn't matter; the plan was not to have to fight his way out of Olare in the first place. "All his broken bones have been knitted back together, and although he isn't back to full strength yet, it's almost a week to Olare. He'll be fine by then." At least, Marcus hoped so. Showing weakness on Olare was a good way to end up as space trash.  
  
Neroon continued to look implacable, the swirling asteroid projection that danced about them giving him the odd appearance of an ancient god calling the elements into being. "Neroon, there isn't time to debate this. The activation code was sold on Olare, which means that the answers we need are there as well. We have to know how the Raiders are penetrating our defenses before they become any more bold. At the moment they are only attacking single ships in outlying areas, but how long do you think it will be until our colonies and even Minbar itself it threatened? You can trust Marcus, he'll get the information we need."  
  
"Then we will all go." It was said with such finality that any thought Marcus had had of persuading the stubborn officer evaporated. "Three will be no more difficult to infiltrate as two, and Shakiri's ire at having an Earther involved in this will be mollified if I am present. I doubt," Neroon said with his usual bluntness, "that your presence would have the same effect. Unless you really are the scion of some noble house in disguise?"  
  
Marcus smiled slightly. His ancestors had been Welsh sheep farmers. "No, afraid not."  
  
"It's settled then. We leave for Olare in the morning. Inform Cole."  
  
TBC 


	3. Section 3

DISCLAIMER: Babylon 5 belongs to JMS. I'm just playing.

AUTHOR: Sarai

E-MAIL: 

PAIRING: Marcus/Neroon

WARNING: m/m slash, violence

RATING: NC-7

SPOILERS: Seasons 3 and 4

SUMMARY: What if they had met before?

TITLE: When it Alteration Finds

Chapter Thirteen

2248, The Ingata

Marcus was starting to worry that he'd done or said something to give himself away. Neroon had become very curious all of a sudden about his home life, and peppered him with questions throughout dinner about his father, his tutors and his early military training. Marcus tried to call up some of Sorval's memories to help him, but the majority of what he said had to be fabricated. He could only hope that, whatever had prompted Neroon's suspicions didn't cause him to contact Sorval's family on Minbar. That would definitely complicate things.  
  
Marcus retreated to his room as soon as possible, but his work on Obsidian was interrupted by a blaring klaxon only minutes later. He carefully shut down and encrypted the program, then ran into the outer room. Neroon was heading out the door as he did so.  
  
"Some of our scout ships have encountered some human vessels. Several of the Earth ships were destroyed, but others managed to get away. We are needed to deal with the crippled ones that remain." Neroon finished fastening his uniform tunic. "Stay here; you're off duty, and there are plenty of hands to manage weapons. This should not take long." Before Marcus could reply, the Alyt was gone.  
  
Marcus stood still for a few moments, both to gather his thoughts and to give Neroon time to clear the area. He had, of course, known that this moment was likely to come, but in the past week had managed to put the possibility out of his mind. There had been no attacks since he came on board, and he'd let himself begin to hope that there wouldn't be any until the rendezvous, when Obsidian would insure that the predators quickly became the prey. Now he was left with an impossible situation. He couldn't risk compromising his mission to interfere, but also couldn't stand by and let more Earth Force ships be blown to bits when he had a chance to prevent it.  
  
There wasn't time for an in-depth analysis, so Marcus followed instinct and left for Weapons Central. If he could access the maintenance tubes near the main console, he might be able to take the primary batteries off line. It would not, of course, affect the Nial fighters, which had probably already been launched, but it might buy the Earth Force ships enough time to get away.  
  
The access tunnels were narrow and dimly lit, but Marcus had become used to them over the last week since Rudan, the chief weapon's officer, was slightly claustrophobic and hated the things. He had sent Marcus on the two repair duties that had come up, giving him at least a basic idea of where he was going. The lights flickered just as he crawled up to the back of the main console, an indication that the ship had come out of hyperspace. There wasn't much time, then.  
  
Rudan had been complaining all week about several subsystems acting up, causing hiccoughs and lag time in the operations of the main grid. Marcus' repairs had been designed to correct the difficulties, but hopefully the recent problems would provide a cover for his sabotage. A few minutes were all it took to undo several days' worth of painstaking repair work, and soon thereafter the secondary subsystem was starting to sizzle.  
  
Marcus backed quickly away, ignoring the pain when a shudder ran through the ship, causing his knee to connect sharply with the side of the passageway. Another sudden lurch had him bouncing around for a moment like a ping pong ball, but as soon as things calmed down, he crawled on. A warning light would appear any minute on the weapon's console, and shortly thereafter someone would be sent to rectify the problem. Since there was no possible excuse he could give for his presence, Marcus intended to be long gone by then.  
  
In his haste to get out of the vicinity, he took a wrong turn in the winding maze of access tunnels, and soon realized that he had no idea where he was. He stopped to orientate himself, but sounds echoed strangely in the metal tubes and it seemed as if people were approaching from all sides. Marcus took the only available out and burst through a ventilation duct into a small room. It wasn't until he was halfway into the darkened chamber that he realized that it was filled with flames.  
  
The ship lurched again, throwing him forward and causing him to bounce off what felt like the edge of a desk. His momentum was halted when he stumbled over something lying in the floor that he soon identified as a body. He could not see who it was since the room was actually darker than the tunnel, with the only light coming from the glowing blue triangle of the door release across the room.  
  
Without thinking, Marcus grabbed the still warm body at his feet and dragged it towards the doorway, only to find another body blocking his path halfway there. He could feel himself getting lightheaded from the smoke and knew he had to get the door open at all costs or there would soon be three of them on the floor. Extending his pike, he used it to punch the release, but it seemed to be stuck. When he hit it again more forcefully, the door finally slid back, letting in clean air from the corridor. Along with it came the shrill shriek of the klaxon, which had been only a slight background noise in the access tunnels, and a dim, red glow from the ship's emergency lights.  
  
Marcus dragged the first body into the corridor and propped it against the wall before going back for the other. He manually closed the malfunctioning door to keep the noxious smoke trapped inside, before stumbling over to the nearest body to check it for injuries. He couldn't see much in the corridor, but there didn't appear to be any wounds except for a sticky wet patch on the man's head. Marcus left him and crawled over to the person he'd propped against the wall, only to discover that, although there was still a weak pulse, there was no sign of him breathing.  
  
Marcus immediately ripped open the man's tunic, shoved aside his armor and began CPR. He needed to call for assistance, but had no idea how long he'd been without oxygen; to hesitate might mean permanent brain damage or death before a medical team could arrive. Fortunately, the hours of first aide instruction drilled into all Intel operatives proved useful, and a few moments later, the man coughed and began gasping for breath.  
  
As soon as he got his own breath back, Marcus found his comm badge and put through a call to Medical. The department sounded as if it was in chaos, but after a few moments, one of the doctors promised that a team would be sent as soon as one became available. Marcus was about to ask why, in the middle of a battle, they didn't have all their personnel on call, but the man abruptly cut the transmission.   
  
Marcus sat back against the wall of the hallway in exhaustion. His own lungs felt heavy, as if he'd breathed a little too much smoke, and his eyes were stinging from particles that had gotten trapped under the damned contacts. He longed to go back to his room and wash them out and maybe drink half a gallon of water, but didn't dare leave his two patients until help could arrive. He recognized the inconsistency, of course. He'd just rescued the lives of two Minbari who, if his mission was a success, would only die in a few weeks anyway, largely because of his actions. But he didn't regret his decision. He could not have simply walked away, leaving them to choke slowly to death, when he could easily prevent it. Whatever monster the war was making of him, he wasn't yet that far gone.  
  
A few seconds later, the main lights came back on and Marcus blinked in the suddenly bright corridor. The man with the bloody head wound groaned, and Marcus moved over to his side just as several medics came hurrying down the corridor. It was not until one of them asked him if the Shi Alyt was badly injured that Marcus realized that the body in front of him belonged to Branmer, of all people. He was still attempting to absorb the fact that he had inadvertently rescued the man scheduled to lead the attack on Earth, when his other patient sat up, catching his attention.  
  
Neroon peered dazedly at him out of a smoke blackened face. "What happened?"  
  
Marcus goggled at him for a second before regaining some equilibrium. "I'm not sure." He tried to clear his head enough to explain how he'd managed to get into what he now realized must have been Branmer's office, but drew a blank. Luckily, one of the med techs assumed Neroon had been addressing him, and broke in.  
  
"Reports are that the Black Star and several cruisers have been destroyed, sir. They followed what looked to be a malfunctioning human vessel into an asteroid belt, and a few minutes afterwards there was a huge explosion. Debris from it damaged even some of our systems, and we were nowhere near the point of impact." The man shied back from the fierce glare Neroon sent him. "I'm sorry, sir, that's all I know." The two med techs loaded Branmer onto a stretcher. "If you need assistance, we can come back . . . "  
  
"No. I am fine." Neroon struggled to his feet, and Marcus moved unthinkingly to assist him. The med techs hurried off as the Alyt shrugged off Marcus' help. "Thank you, but I can manage." He refastened his tunic before starting off, a little awkwardly, down the tunnel.  
  
"Where are you going?," Marcus demanded, following him. "You almost died a few minutes ago. Don't you think the doctors should take a look at you?"  
  
"Later." Neroon waved the question away. "I have to assess the damage first, and insure that this isn't the beginning of a large scale assault." He shook his head to clear it, and Marcus saw the disbelief in his eyes. "How did they manage it? The Black Star . . . it's impossible. It must have been an accident."  
  
Marcus bristled at the assumption that Earth Force could not possibly take out a Sharlin class cruiser on its own. Of course, they never had managed it before, but he was glad to see that someone on his side was learning to be devious. It sounded like they had set up an ambush, which had probably netted a bigger prize than anyone had planned. Maybe, he thought wistfully, the destruction of an important ship might cause the Minbari to rethink the war. He doubted it would have that effect on the Warrior Caste--Neroon, for one, was already beginning to flush with anger as the shock wore off--but maybe the Religious Caste leadership would have more sense. He devoutly hoped so.  
  
"You can come to the bridge with me. Later I want to hear how you managed to save the Shi Alyt, but for now, we have work to do."  
  
Marcus sighed and followed his mentor down the corridor, busily trying to come up with an excuse that might be believed. One thing was certain, this episode was definitely NOT going in the mission report, assuming he somehow survived to make one.  
  
Chapter Fourteen  
  
2261, On the way to Olare  
  
Neroon had to give the Ranger organization credit. The small, evil looking ship Cole had appropriated for them was exactly what a smuggler might be expected to own, as were the esoteric collection of personal armaments arrayed on the bed in the only cabin. The outrageous attire the Ranger expected him to wear, however, was taking the charade a little too far.  
  
"I assume you are joking?" Neroon held up the ridiculous trousers. They were made of some type of animal hide and were designed to fit like a glove, assuming they were anything like the ones into which the Ranger had somehow poured himself. Cole was, Neroon noticed with irritation, looking unreasonably jovial for someone who was about to walk into what could prove to be a death trap. The fact that he looked ridiculous in the tight black clothes and copious amount of gold jewelry he was wearing also did not seem to phase him. But then, an ill-timed sense of humor seemed to be another of the many problems with Earthers.  
  
Neroon wished, yet again, that Sorval could have come instead, not that a week's journey alone in a small ship with him was necessarily a good idea. Sorval had made the decision to live his own life when he chose not to inform Neroon that he had survived the war, or to send him any communications in all the time since. Perhaps it had been fear of bringing disgrace on his family if his deception was revealed that prompted his silence, or perhaps he had merely never cared as Neroon had. Relationships often developed between dra'ma and their trainers, but few became permanent. It was not Sorval's fault that Neroon had come to want theirs to be so, and in any case, he had a new lover now. Neroon had not, therefore, contested Sorval's decision to stay behind on Babylon 5 so that someone would be aware of the problem if they failed to return. The more he was around the Ranger, however, the more he regretted that decision.  
  
"You'll stick out at the brothel if you show up in anything too understated," Cole was saying.  
  
"I beg your pardon."  
  
"The brothel," Cole responded cheerfully. "Well, you didn't think we were going to blast our way into Olare, did you? The Dagger's a good ship, but she'd be no match for that defense grid. Anyway, we're after answers, not a body count."  
  
Which did not, Neroon thought in exasperation, explain why Cole was apparently set on visiting a brothel with the two of them attired more like courtesans than clients. When he said as much, it resulted merely in another wide grin and an assessing look. "Yes, we could probably get a good bit for you," the irrepressible Ranger had the gall to comment. "So be nice, or I'll start thinking about selling you." Cole took advantage of Neroon's momentary outrage to scoop up his discarded attire and throw it down a laundry chute, leaving him with little choice but to squeeze into the odd Terran garments. They were less uncomfortable than he had imagined, but had an alarming tendency to squeak at odd moments, making them ill suited, he thought, for a warrior's attire.   
  
Eventually, after Neroon joined Cole in the small command cubicle, the human finally managed to make a coherent point. It seemed that, the last time he had been on Olare, he had only managed to get away with his life because he'd acquired a protector. That individual presently ran one of the most infamous brothels in known space, so they were off to beg her aid in once more infiltrating the station appropriately known as Hell.  
  
Cole's familiarity with Olare had been the main point convincing Neroon that, despite his weakened physical state, he was the correct choice to accompany him on the mission. Now he was beginning to wonder. Madams were not known for generosity or for straight dealing; the creature Cole was planning to use would likely sell news of their plans to the first bidder and undermine their mission from the start. When Neroon attempted to point this out, however, the human merely shrugged.  
  
"You don't know Rennie. Besides, I'm not planning to tell her the truth about the mission. I actually think she'd be disappointed if I didn't come up with a flamboyant lie." Neroon held onto his temper with difficulty. Half or more of the Minbari fleet was under serious threat, and still the human joked! He wondered if he would make a week without strangling him. It would be a close thing.  
  
The brothel turned out to be just as bad as Neroon had expected. The majority of the customers were Centauri, not surprising since the station that housed the gaudy establishment was on the outskirts of Centauri space, but there were a smattering of Narns, Drazi and humans about also, allowing Cole to fit in easily enough. Neroon garnered more than a little attention, however, which did not surprise him. When Minbari felt the need for services such as those offered by the dubiously named Heart's Desire, they turned to others of their kind. He was probably the only Minbari ever to set foot in the silken draped, incense fogged hallways, and as they progressed on their way, he acquired a train of curious followers.  
  
By the time they reached the salon where the Madam kept court, Neroon was beginning to wish he had taken up Cole's offer to go in alone. At the time, he had assumed it was a ruse to allow the human to waste time drinking and carousing, but considering the size of the parade they had acquired, he was starting to wonder if Cole hadn't known what he was talking about. In that case, the damned man should have explained better. The last thing they needed was this much exposure.  
  
"Ah, my lovely Andrew!" A cloud of red and gold draperies descended on them, which, once Neroon had batted away the gauzy fabric obscuring his vision, resolved itself into the ugliest woman he had ever seen. She was probably Centauri, judging by the shaved cranium, but had so many sags, folds and lines on her wrinkled face that she could have been almost anything. A clawed hand grabbed at Cole's backside, but because of the slickness of the animal hide covering, could not get a good grip. For the first time, Neroon was thankful for their ridiculous attire. "And you bring me a gift! And such a gift!" The crone made a few tottering steps in his direction, and Neroon automatically stepped back. "Oh, he's shy! We'll soon take care of that, won't we?"  
  
Her assembled court of prostitutes and favored clients gave a roar of approval, causing Cole, after shooting Neroon a smug look, to have some difficulty explaining that his companion was neither a gift nor up for sale. The crone sulked, muttering about ungrateful brats and making what Neroon assumed were highly inflated estimates of what his services would fetch on an hourly basis. He ignored her, except to keep well out of the reach of those blood red talons, while Cole flirted shamelessly. The human's battered face and shaved head--the latter, as he had explained to Neroon, the result of some of the doctor's treatments--garnered him a good deal of sympathy from the Madam, who donated a wildly painted scarf for a head covering. He tied it on while she shooed her court out of the room and collapsed back on a mass of cushions with an exaggerated sigh.   
  
"I'm thinking of retiring," she told Cole pitifully when they had all gone. "I'm not as strong as I used to be, and people try to take advantage of me all the time." Her argument was somewhat diminished by the healthy swig she took on a huge flagon of spirits immediately thereafter. Neroon, whose mother often made similar declarations of feebleness whenever she was scheming to get her way, was skeptical. "I'm glad you would never try to cheat an old woman, Andrew dear."  
  
Cole put on a trustworthy expression. "Never!," he declared, kissing the nearest claw with every appearance of relish. "You're far too sharp for me, Rennie!"  
  
Neroon couldn't tell if the mad old creature was attempting to flirt, or if her obviously fake eyelashes were irritating her, but one seemed to have become stuck. The watery blue eye that wasn't having problems with the eyelash regarded him blearily. "I know what you want, my dear. And I have just the thing. She's fresh off the farm, barely out of her teens and . . . "  
  
"No, Rennie. Although the reputation of your fine establishment is known far and wide, I'm afraid my partner and I don't have time to indulge--this trip, at least."  
  
"Partner, hmmm? So that's how it is." Rennie managed to rip off the offending eyelash and it went soaring, landing near Neroon's feet like a large, dead spider. He resisted the urge to stomp on it. "I don't suppose you two would consider giving a little performance, would you? For just a few select guests? We'd make a killing!" She eyed Neroon and cackled. "No one's ever seen one of them go at it, after all. Tell me, is he any good?" Neroon almost choked in an effort not to respond, and thereby lose whatever chance they had of gaining the creature's aid, whatever that might be. He could have sworn that she winked at him, although with her eye problem it was difficult to tell.  
  
"Perhaps another time, Rennie," Cole said, looking regretful as he turned her down. For his sake, Neroon hoped he was acting. "Right now, we have something of an emergency, and need the sort of help only you can give."  
  
The crone apparently found this very funny. "Oh, I don't know if I'm up to two of you at my age!," she laughed. "At least, not at the same time."  
  
Cole shook his head. "As pleasant a prospect as that is, I was actually talking about your little sideline." He didn't appear to have moved, but suddenly held one of the Ranger pins carefully cupped in the palm of his hand. "I believe you told a friend of mine once that, if she needed a favor, she had only to ask?"  
  
A surprising transformation came over the wrinkled red lump. Suddenly, Neroon could understand how such a creature had managed to build and maintain the most notorious chain of brothels in the system. Her eyes lost their vagueness and she sat up, placing the now largely empty flagon carefully among the scattered silks. "Really? Must have been in a weak moment."   
  
"I believe it was right after several White Stars kept Kolese from turning your ship into salvage with you still on it."   
  
Rennie smiled slightly. "Oh, yes. I do seem to recall something, now that you mention it." Shrewd blue eyes glanced over them both, before returning to Cole. "I knew you weren't a smuggler. Too good looking, and far too noble." She sighed. "What does she want?"  
  
Cole didn't waste any more time. "We need to get onto Olare without attracting notice."   
  
"Oh, is that all?" The woman sounded appropriately sarcastic. Neroon tended to agree with her. He couldn't imagine what Cole could be thinking, first identifying himself as a Ranger and then demanding the impossible. "Want me to conquer the Centauri empire, too, while I'm at it?"  
  
"I thought you already had. Wasn't that the Minister of Defense I saw on the way in here, sandwiched between two Narns?"  
  
Rennie shrugged. "He picked up a taste for them when the government controlled the Narn home world, and then his supply dried up." She picked up a data pad and scrolled through some entries while Neroon fumed. This was absurd, and positively the last time he would ever trust a human. "I have an idea," she surprised him by saying after several long minutes had passed. "But you aren't going to like it."  
  
"Why not?" Marcus looked suddenly less cheerful.  
  
The old hag grinned, showing an absence of teeth. "Because I don't think gold lamé is really your color, dear."

Chapter Fifteen

2248, The Ingata

Branmer adjusted position behind his desk to better accommodate the great mass of bandages with which Tranus had smothered him. Neroon had refused to submit to similar treatment, primarily because it would have necessitated remaining in Medical half the day instead of overseeing the ship's repairs, and the Ingata could ill afford to have both its senior officers unavailable for duty. The crew's discipline was as firm as always, but he had noticed a haunted look on more than one face. Many had had friends or relatives on the Black Star, and its loss had hit hard. He had kept them too busy to grieve, but it would come eventually, and they needed to see him acting as if this was an isolated incident that would not effect the final assault in the slightest. Which it wouldn't; he and Branmer would see to that. His body had begun to protest the lack of medical attention, however, with regular bolts of pain from his various contusions shooting through him at odd moments. But none were as uncomfortable as the conversation with the Shi Alyt.

"Tyamer is worried about his heir's safety. It is understandable," Branmer said, tossing the recent communiqué onto his desk with a contemptuous flip of his wrist, "if not precisely commendable. After our recent close call, he prefers to have the young man with him."

"No." Neroon did not hesitate. "That would be most unwise." Until he managed to unravel the mystery of Sorval's upbringing, he wasn't going to send him back into a potentially abusive situation.

"I understand your reluctance," Branmer agreed. "The father's decision will not help the son's career, despite the commendation I shall see that Sorval receives for his recent actions. He will always have difficulty explaining why he left the fleet on the eve of our biggest battle in centuries, without so much as a scratch on him. However, Tyamer is well within his rights, and I have no grounds for refusing his request. I may be Sorval's commanding officer, but his sire's wishes take precedence, especially since Tyamer is also his clan leader."

"No." Neroon began pacing the small office, which, like much of the ship, still bore the signs of their recent buffeting. "He is my dra'ma, surely . . ."

"Your feelings are commendable, Neroon. I, too, would like to give the young man a chance to make a name for himself, but neither my position as his commander nor yours as his mentor supercedes his father's. If Tyamer is determined to have his heir recalled, he will manage it."

Neroon considered telling Branmer about his suspicions of Tyamer's treatment of his precious heir, but took only a few moments to realize the difficult position that would create for his Shi Alyt. Branmer was trying to plan the final assault on Earth so as to spare as much of the civilian population as possible while eliminating its military capability. In addition, he had a damaged ship to repair, grief and shock over the loss of the Black Star--on which several close friends had served--to manage, and a number of serious injuries to overcome. He did not need yet another problem, especially when it was one to which even his strongest worded protest would likely go unheeded.

Neroon left his superior's office a few minutes later in a foul mood. He was not accustomed to having his requests denied, and was angry at himself for not being able to come up with a solution to spare his dra'ma. It did not help that he was far from understanding the situation. It made little sense that Tyamer would be concerned enough over Sorval's well being to have him recalled when he mistreated him at home, and it played havoc with the theory that Sorval had been sent to the Ingata to seduce Neroon. But solving the riddle of Tyamer's motivations was less a concern than how to negate his request. The Tudeska, a small transport damaged in the Black Star's destruction, was being sent to Minbar for repairs as soon as its main engines were brought back online, and unless he could manage a miracle, Sorval would be on it.

Neroon went about his duties with his usual thoroughness, but the pressing problem of his dra'ma's future kept returning to mind. By the time his third shift in a row ended and he finally heeded his body's demand for rest, he still had no idea how to outwit the wily Kathui leader. He returned to his quarters in some pain and a foul mood, only to find that his dra'ma was nowhere to be found. He managed to undress without assistance and, after an inspection of his stiff limbs, decided that, although the next week was unlikely to be comfortable, he would suffer no lasting ill effects from his close call.

He tarried over dinner longer than usual, contemplating Sorval's timing while he ate the remainder of his excellent cooking. Odd that the pampered son of a proud aristocrat would bother to acquire such a skill, but it was hardly the only mystery about Sorval. Why the boy had ignored the command to remain in their quarters and how he had managed to come along just at the expedient moment were far more interesting questions. The rescue, now that Neroon had time to think about it, seemed highly improbable, unless Sorval was dogging his every step. How else would he have known that he and Branmer would be in the Shi Alyt's office? He should have looked for them on the bridge or at Battle Command, which was where they would have been had Branmer not needed to consult secret orders in the case of such an emergency. But how Sorval could have followed them was another mystery. Neroon was trained to notice when he was being tailed, and Sorval was apt to trip over his own two feet unless wielding a denn'bok. Perhaps he had simply made a fortunate guess as to their whereabouts, unlikely as it seemed. The real question was why he would bother.

Was he so infatuated that he couldn't bear to let Neroon out of his sight? That seemed ridiculous, especially if his regard was feigned. Of course, if Tyamer had sent his son on a political mission, it seemed strange that he would recall him just when Sorval had gained the coveted position as Neroon's live in aide, which would surely be expected to help their machinations. Admittedly, the Black Star's destruction had shocked many who had thought that the humans could be subdued without significant losses, but Tyamer was an old warrior himself; the concept of danger to his son must have crossed his mind before he agreed to the posting. Instead of recalling Sorval, Tyamer should be exhorting him to continue his progress with Neroon. Unless, of course, there had never been a plan of seduction at all. Unless Sorval's interest was genuine.

That opened up a totally new avenue of thought which kept Neroon occupied for some time. After looking at it from all directions, he could see no real objection to the plan that had occurred to him, except for possible difficulties backing out later. It helped that he wouldn't actually have to go through with it; the war would be over soon, and he would be free to deal with matters in a more well informed and leisurely way. War time alliances were easily made and as easily broken, and few would likely think much of it. The main thing at the moment was to keep the young man with him, and that his plan would manage perfectly.

Marcus was trying not to panic, but it was getting a little difficult. He had just been informed that Sorval's father demanded his recall, since the future of the Moon Shield leadership would be badly damaged by the loss of its heir. The ship to Minbar was set to leave in less than a day, and Obsidian still wasn't functional. If it had been, he would have taken the ship gladly, knowing that, although he'd doubtless be exposed as soon as it landed, at least his mission would have been a success. As it was, he would probably get to wait out the days before his execution for espionage listening to news reports of Earth's destruction.

He had had no time to work on the program since learning of the impending recall as, along with everyone else, he had been pulling double shifts to complete the ship's

repairs as quickly as possible. He had finally been released for a rest when third shift went on duty and had spent hours wrestling with the program from hell, as he had less than affectionately named it. But he had been so tired and distracted that little was accomplished, and time was running out.

In desperation, Marcus went to try to convince Neroon to postpone his return, only to find that the Alyt had completed his third straight duty shift and called it a day. Marcus raced back to their rooms once again, dodging the crew members and repair bots that littered the halls, frantic to find some excuse to buy more time. There was still a week and a half before the assault on Earth, and possibly longer now that Earthforce had finally managed to cause some havoc. That might be good enough--it would have to be--but a few hours would not suffice. He had to come up with a reason for Neroon to fight to keep him around. Unfortunately, the only one his exhausted brain kept coming up with was his curry making abilities, which as an argument didn't impress even him.

Thankfully, Neroon was still up when he returned and Marcus immediately launched into the hurried speech he'd prepared, emphasizing the need for every crewmember to remain at their posts in the current situation. It wasn't very convincing since, at the rate things were going, the repairs would be completed in a few days, but it was the best he could do. He had started to run down by the time he realized that Neroon was acting rather peculiar. Instead of waving away his concerns as he'd half expected, his superior was listening with an intent look on his face that worried Marcus for reasons he couldn't immediately define.

"So, er, with three injured on my shift and five more throughout the weapons division, it would seem better for me to postpone my return until at least the repairs are completed. Although, even then, if some of the injured are going to require extensive recovery time, it would be imprudent of me to leave before most of them are on their feet. We can't afford to be shorthanded with a major battle ahead. So, perhaps it would be best to just inform my father that I won't be returning until after the final assault."

"You wish me to tell him?" Neroon asked, never taking his eyes off Marcus. That steady regard was becoming quite disturbing.

"Well, you are my commanding officer and, technically, I'm not supposed to make personal calls, especially with communications tied up with the adjustments to the battle plans and whatnot . . ."

"You don't want to talk to your father." It was not a question. Marcus began wondering if somehow he had given himself away and Neroon was playing with him before revealing that he knew all. It was eerily similar to the anxiety ridden nightmares he'd been having of late--except that last one, which had featured him being eaten alive by a giant dish of flarn.

I couldn't have, he thought frantically. He had made sure that the med techs never got anywhere near him when he escorted Neroon to Medical, and the hated disguise was fine. He'd taken it off and checked it out in their cabin before returning to duty, just in case his crawl through the maintenance tubes had damaged it. But if Neroon still knew nothing, why the sudden interest? And what if the Alyt insisted that he make a call to Tyamer? There was no way either his face or voice would fool the Moon Shield leader even for a minute.

"Er, well, I just think . . . that is, I wouldn't want any special treatment. Everyone would like to talk to their families right now, to assure them that they are well. But that would tie up communications just when we most need them clear, and it would not help my reputation if I were the only one to succeed."

"No," Neroon smiled faintly. "Of course not." He continued his silent regard, but Marcus steadied himself with the thought that, if Neroon had found him out, he wouldn't be talking to him alone in their quarters, but would have several telepaths scanning him in the brig. Unless, of course, there were teeps hidden somewhere in the apartment. Marcus forced himself not to look about. If they were there, they'd already acquired more than enough to damn him. His only real protection had been the hope that they would never bother to look.

"What if I told you that there is a way to avoid your father's demand for your recall, but that it involves a somewhat . . . unorthodox element?"

Marcus jumped at Neroon's voice, and inwardly cursed himself for appearing visibly nervous. If the Alyt didn't already suspect him, he certainly would if he kept that up. "I'd be interested, of course." Marcus cut off his usual tendency to babble under pressure, reminding himself of his trainer's advice to say no more in any situation than was necessary. That was especially vital when a single wrong word could betray him.

"Good. Then I will make that call to your father, to tell him that, as your fiancé, I choose to exercise my right to keep you with me."

Chapter Sixteen

2261, On the way to Olare

"His name is Rainar Etoghale." Marcus called up a particularly ugly face on the vid screen. "Half human, half Drazi," he explained, before Neroon could ask. It had not been a fortunate combination: soft folds of excess flesh covered with pink tinged grey scales almost hid beady, hostile eyes. "Minor league con man, small arms dealer and informant. Tried to be an assassin for hire a few years ago, but quit after his mark almost killed him. A screw up, basically, but a useful one. His brother, Partere, is one of the biggest slavers in the system. He manages the sale of most of the prisoners taken by the Raiders and practically runs Olare these days."

"So if anyone can tell us about Obsidian, it would be him," Neroon summarized.

"Right, but we don't want to talk to Partere, since he received all the brains in the family, and our cover story is a bit . . . thin." And it wasn't the only thing, Marcus thought, avoiding looking at his current costume. He mentally damned Rennie to hell for the sixth time that hour; trust him to have a contact who thought she had a sense of humor. "Hence Rainar."

"Won't he be suspicious to let two unknowns onto Olare? And why can we not simply question him elsewhere?"

Marcus tamped down a feeling of annoyance. He had been on an adrenaline high when he and Neroon first started the trip, and had found the Minbari's obvious disgust at Rennie's usual antics amusing. But after she saddled them with this ridiculous charade, the brunt of which would be borne by him and not his less than diplomatic partner, his good humor had begun to evaporate. That process had been considerably helped by Neroon continuing to question his every move on the mission, however small. He had managed dozens of such affairs on his own quite well thank you, not to mention one that had, and against all odds still was, fooling Neroon. He didn't need to be constantly harassed for information by a Minbari whose experience in undercover assignments was likely minimal at best. But he had learned in the last four days that it was far easier to get his partner off his back by simply answering his questions than by arguing with him.

"He'll smuggle us onto the station because Rennie gave us enough information to put him and his operation out of business permanently. And he can't go running to big brother for help. If Partere knew how badly and how often his sibling had messed up, and how far he'd endangered their business by his incompetence, he'd gut him for us. As for questioning him elsewhere, we'll be doing that as soon as we rendezvous, but the odds of him knowing much are slim. Partere never tells Rainar about anything big. He doesn't trust him any more than anyone else who has ever met him."

Marcus paused, catching an unwelcoming glimpse of himself in the reflection from the view screen. God, he really owed Rennie something special for this. Of course, it did have its upside; Neroon had barely glanced at him since he put it on. "I believe Rennie might have been right. Silver would have been much better with my skin tone." As he'd hoped, the warrior gave a disgusted grunt and left the tiny command center, allowing Marcus to navigate to the rendezvous on his own. Now, if only Rainar would be so easily dealt with.

"You outta you minds!" The blubbering blob that was the illustrious Partere's brother slouched on a chair on his ship's luxurious viewing deck and looked about ready to collapse into the floor. His usually frightening mix of the worst aspects of his parent's visages was streaked with tears and some type of yellowish slime Marcus was trying hard not to think about. They'd arrived earlier than expected and caught him with a rather exotic member of his large harem--a perk to having a brother in the trade--and part of Marcus' brain was still trying to erase that image. He'd probably be having nightmares about it for weeks.

"Rainar, you know perfectly well that you have no choice. There's enough information in even one of these files to shut your brother down permanently, and garner you the death sentence on several dozen worlds. All we want to forget about it is a tiny amount of cooperation."

"I don't knows nothing!" The combination of English words and Drazi grammar, not to mention the frequent introduction of profanity garnered from half the worlds in the system, was giving Marcus a headache, and they'd only been on board fifteen minutes.

"Of that I have no doubt," Marcus snapped, trying to maintain a sunny temperament, but not being helped by the thought that, while they wasted time with this boil on the galaxy's backside, what little chance they had of keeping a lid on Obsidian was slipping away.

"Cole, have you ever seen what they do to slavers who cheat on their payments to the Drazi government?" Neroon asked idly. He was looming over Rainar from a standing position, having answered the offer of a chair with a sneer. Judging by his expression, he obviously thought any contact with the surface of the ship to be unhygienic. To his credit, he was probably right.

To Marcus' surprise, Neroon's comment, gleaned from a few mentions in Rennie's files, had an immediate and startling effect. Rainar sat up, pulled out a large handkerchief and began mopping his sodden face. "They'll never believe it. You don't have anything solid on me."

"Your English has improved, I see." Marcus was irritated at being played, and doubly so at Neroon being the one to realize it.

"And you gotta be the ugliest pleasure slave I ever saw," Rainar spat, looking him over contemptuously. "I don't know who you think you're going to fool. Now cut the crap and show me the evidence, or get the hell off my ship."

Marcus jammed a copy of one of their data files into a nearby viewer and waited. Rainar had the lousy eyesight common to his father's people, but the viewer must have been specially modified, because he absorbed the level of trouble he was in very quickly. Marcus was considering the possibility that it was less ability than sheer indifference that kept the younger Etoghale brother from making a name for himself. And, with his family, looking too incompetent to be a threat might be a healthy advantage.

"Where did you get this?"

"You don't actually expect us to answer that, do you? Just help us get onto Olare and you'll never see it again. And neither will anyone else." At least not until Rennie decided she could make a profit from it and sold it on. There were certainly plenty of potential purchasers; the Etoghale's had made more than a few enemies through the years.

Rainar looked at him with a lax expression on his mismatched features, but Marcus no longer assumed that there was little mental activity going on behind the slaver's dull eyes. "If I kill you now, maybe I never see it again either. And I don't have to look over my shoulder, waiting for my brother's assassins to find me after you get caught and ID me as the idiot who helped you."

Neroon re-entered the conversation before Marcus could respond. "Assuming you managed to murder us," his expression showed obvious skepticism on that point, "the entire Star Rider's clan would hunt you across half the galaxy if need be, and the end they devised would be far more creative than anything your brother might design. That is, of course," a fist caught Rainar by his messy tunic and levitated the overweight captain entirely out of his chair, "if I do not kill you for impugning the courage of my caste by implying that a Minbari warrior would break under questioning."

Marcus was set to enjoy the spectacle of Rainar's bulk dangling like a deflated balloon for several minutes, but he had seen the look on Neroon's face on those of too many Minbari not to recognize it. He might be playing good cop/bad cop, but Neroon was perfectly serious. And having him snap the neck of their only way onto Olare was not a good move.

"Right. Neroon, I'm sure Rainar meant nothing of the kind. Did you?" A wet kind of squeak was the only answer the man seemed capable of making. "So, er, why don't you put him back down and we'll hammer out the details? Time is passing," Marcus commented as cheerfully as he was able. Despite constant contact, he never managed to become insouciant around enraged Minbari--which, all things considered, was probably a good thing.

After several more tense seconds, Neroon opened his hand and Rainar dropped like a sack of sand back onto the small command chair, which wobbled dangerously under his girth. Surprisingly, it didn't break. It took him a few moments, but eventually he managed to get his breath back and typed out an introduction for them to Partere. But there was no way, he swore, looking at Neroon with a mixture of hatred and fear, that he could accompany them to his brother's base. He had been delegated to deal with a problem in Centauri space by Partere, who would not understand if he returned without having completed it. "But this is the access code to the defense grid; it and the letter will get you onto the base, but you'll have to make your own way off. Don't expect me to rescue you. Until I hear one way or the other how it went, I'm not going anywhere near that place!"

It was, Marcus reflected, as good as they were likely to get. He doubted Rainar would betray them; no one would knowingly bring down the wrath of the entire Star Riders clan on his head. Whether Partere would consider his useless brother's word a good enough reason not to blow them out of space just for the hell of it remained to be seen.

Getting onto Olare turned out to be surprisingly easy. By putting considerable strain on the Dagger's engines, they approached the base just as its ten day cycle reached open space. The access code for the defense grid allowed them to be routed into the lengthy line of ships waiting to dock in the narrow window of time before Olare drifted off into the asteroids again, rather than the ships who skirted the edges of the field and petitioned to join the queue. The audience with Partere, however, was another matter entirely.

The slaver was no more attractive than his brother, but he dressed much more opulently, in enough red and yellow silks to make a small tent. Reclining at the head of a large banquet table, glittering with jewels and being attended by no less than four pleasure slaves, he actually made Rennie look tasteful by comparison. It wasn't sight of Partere's overblown dress sense that made Marcus want to jump up and run for the nearest door, however.

After reading his brother's introductory epistle, the slaver welcomed them like old friends--or particularly dangerous enemies over whom he wanted to keep watch--and invited them to join him in the large banquet hall for dinner. They had little choice but to recline at the low table piled high with delicacies from far flung systems and try to look like they fit in. Marcus wished he had persuaded Neroon to throw a few gaudy necklaces or a sash or two over his plain black leathers. Opulence and ostentatious display seemed to be in fashion among the Raiders, and Neroon stuck out like a crow in the midst of a flock of peacocks. It had been hard enough to get him into the costume in the first place, however, and Marcus could only hope that his drab attire would be put down to general Minbari oddity. He just wished he'd had the good sense to pick Neroon out a costume that was a little less tight; as nice as the view was, it was proving a distraction.

Dinner was bad enough on its own, considering the intelligence that showed clearly in the slaver's squinty gaze whenever it rested on them, but the activities that followed the meal came close to causing Marcus to lose his cool completely. "I thought Minbari weren't supposed to be affectionate in public," he hissed to Neroon. Reclining comfortably on a mound of cushions behind him, his "owner" was making as free with him as with desert, a fact that concerned Marcus on a number of levels. The hand that had snaked under the tunic Rennie had thought appropriate was also making it very difficult to think clearly, a serious problem in a room filled with people who made the average denizen of Down Below look like a Boy Scout.

"I am a rogue Minbari who has descended so far as to traffic in sentient life forms," was the calm reply, as Neroon tugged at the thin swath of fabric that was all that was allowing Marcus to pretend to decency. "If I follow protocol too rigidly, it might be remarked upon. Do not be alarmed Earther. I can assure you, this will be carried no further than necessary."

That was not particularly comforting considering the level of activity taking place around them. Marcus could see Neroon's point--pleasure slaves were generally brought along for a reason, and someone might still be sober enough to wonder why Neroon, who Rainar had portrayed as a disgruntled veteran of the Earth/Minbari War who dealt exclusively in humans, was so uninterested in his pet slave. The fact remained that this was not the kind of peril Marcus had expected to face on the base. All things considered, an ambush at ten to one odds looked more attractive by the minute.

Partere was luckily far too involved with his own slaves to pay them much attention, as were most of the other beings in the room. Except for one, a dark figure in an alcove, who turned and strode out almost the same minute Marcus' gaze came to rest on him. The walk alone would have been enough to identify not only his species but his caste; the familiar indents in the fabric of his hood caused by the ridges of a bone crest were unnecessary confirmation. The sight of a Minbari warrior casually and incongruously present at a slaver's banquet would have been enough to raise Marcus' suspicions, even had he known nothing about Obsidian. As it was, following the man was imperative.

"Neroon, did you see . . . "

The question was cut off by a very familiar mouth descending on his. Marcus responded automatically for an instant, the taste of his long lost lover immediately recognizable and instantly seductive. Not to mention that it had been a very long time since he'd felt any sort of sexual pleasure that he didn't personally provide. God, he had forgotten just how good Neroon tasted! None of his attempts to recreate this sensation had ever even come close.

After the disaster on the Ingata, he had taken several years to even begin thinking about dating, and several more to act on it, only to find that the only person who interested him was the one he could never hope to have. The fact that his ideal partner was from another species and male didn't particularly bother him; that Neroon was almost certain to kill him if he ever found out that he wasn't dead already, however, did. He had persisted in sporadic attempts to find someone who could overwrite his memories of those last weeks on the Ingata, but Susan had been a typical example of his luck--beautiful, brainy, and completely uninterested in him. Sometimes he thought he had picked her simply because misery loves company, and no one was more miserable than Susan.

The thought of Susan led to thoughts of Babylon 5 and then to a vision of its exploding under a mass Raider attack if he didn't concentrate on what he was supposed to be doing. He started a very belated struggle, but it did no good considering his companion's far greater strength and the pleasurable sensations their activities aroused, none of which lent much vigor to his escape attempts. Why did this have to happen now? And why was Neroon being so passionate when they were only putting on a show? He'd spent almost the whole trip out reviewing Rennie's files or beating the hell out of foam padded packing crates in the cargo bay--for training purposes, Marcus had assumed. If he'd wanted to relieve some boredom by seducing his partner, he'd had plenty of time to do so when it wouldn't screw up the entire mission. But then, his timing had never been convenient, at least not for Marcus. "Neroon, let me go! We have to . . . "

The whispered comment, possible when Neroon finally came up for air, was cut off when Marcus noticed the expression on his companion's face. Oh shit. Apparently he wasn't the only one who had just had his memory jogged. That kiss might turn out to head his list of serious life errors, assuming he lived long enough to revise the record. He was, as Michael would have said, busted, and as soon as Neroon recovered from the shock, it would take that keen brain about ten seconds to realize that at least some of the current problems could be laid at Marcus' door. That and the small matter of an old but major betrayal meant he had to find the mysterious Minbari watcher quickly and get the key to deactivating Obsidian, or whatever was causing havoc for the fleet, or he was most certainly going to be very dead.

Marcus didn't hesitate, but jumped up, grabbed Neroon's wine goblet, and ran out of the hall, hopefully looking to any observer like a dutiful slave off to the kitchens to obtain his master a better beverage. The fact that Neroon had, of course, not so much as sipped the wine he had been served, which sloshed over the cup rim as Marcus ran for his life, was something he could only trust would go unnoticed in the Bacchanalia taking over the dining chamber. In any case, he had more important things to worry about.

Chapter Seventeen

2248, The Ingata

Neroon had anticipated an uphill battle. Even assuming that Sorval's interest was real, or that he was afraid enough of his father to agree even if it wasn't, such an unexpected proposal would cause amazement at least, if not dismay. He therefore made certain to spell out his reasons clearly.

"This is the only way if you wish to remain here. As it stands, I have no possible leverage with your father to oppose his wishes. If I or even Branmer were to do so, he would go over our heads to the council and they would order you to comply with his commands. You are his heir, but not his equal under law. He is your clan leader, and only knowledge that another of equal rank has a claim on you will prevent him from exercising his paternal prerogatives. The marriage bond is the only one which overrules a parent's rights. Naturally, I will understand if you wish some time to think about this. It is a large step to take and . . . "

Neroon's planned speech was cut short by Sorval launching himself into his arms and kissing him passionately. When he finally managed to detach his enthusiastic new fiancé, he reflected ruefully that matters had been settled much more easily than expected. He soon realized exactly how ironic that thought had been.

Branmer was the first obstacle to the match, to Neroon's considerable surprise. He had assumed that his commander would simply sanction any action he chose to take, both out of long acquaintance and because Branmer was well known for never interfering in his officer's private affairs. It was one reason he was among the most popular of the fleet's commanders. This time, however, he appeared willing to make an exception.

"I find it a little difficult to believe, Neroon, that you are truly committed to a young man you met barely ten days ago! This wouldn't have anything to do with pique over my refusal to oppose Tyamer's request, would it? I know you are unaccustomed to having your will thwarted, but to go this far!"

"I can assure you that I would never take such a step out of petulance," Neroon replied, astonished to be so accused by one he had believed knew him well. His surprise, and a reluctance to accuse Tyamer of abuse with little proof, hampered his defense, and Branmer ultimately refused to perform the ceremony. Not that it was a serious consideration. Normally, it would have been considered a public reproof to have the ship's senior officer, who had been a leading voice in the Religious Caste and was well trained to officiate, to decline. However, since Neroon had no intention of actually going through with the penultimate ceremony, Branmer's refusal would never be known.

It was still a blow, however, especially when it became obvious during the course of the conversation that Branmer suspected Neroon of using Sorval as little more than a pawn in some nefarious plan to advance his power once the war was over. Despite his respect for his commander, and his repeated reminders to himself of Branmer's recent losses on the Black Star, he was having difficulty holding his temper by the time the Shi Alyt finally sighed and wearily commented that he had no way of stopping the engagement, however unwise he thought it to be.

Tyamer, who heard the news from a brief message Neroon sent the same day, was far less restrained. And unlike Branmer, he both could and did immediately try to stop it. Neroon received messages from family members informing him that the old man had almost had a fit before the Clan Council and had attempted to get an official sanction against Neroon for, as he put it, "corrupting his son and endangering the Moon Shield succession." He actually seemed to think that Neroon, who had no son "because of his well known preference for males," had decided to steal Tyamer's and train him as his own successor. It was so paranoid that it would have been almost amusing if the old man hadn't apparently sincerely believed it.

As it was, unless Tyamer was playing a far more subtle game than Neroon could understand, it was evident that he had not sent Sorval on a planned seduction. That was a comfort, despite the outrageously offensive language he had continually used to refer to Neroon, his clan and his parentage. The latter, Neroon learned, had caused his mother, who represented the Star Riders in the Clan Council in his absence, to challenge the old man to a duel. The two had barely been restrained from coming to blows there and then, lending Neroon the disturbing mental picture of his elderly mother and the equally frail Moon Shield leader swatting at each other on the council floor over his honor.

He discovered when his duty shift ended that Tyamer had sent personal communiqués to both himself and Sorval, utilizing restricted channels supposed to be reserved for emergencies. As the old man made clear in his opening sentence, he considered the perverting of his son and the interruption of the direct succession of his line to fall under that category. He went on to demand Sorval's immediate return and a written apology to all Moon Shields to be delivered in front of the entire Clan Council.

Neroon was grateful that the message, due to the exigencies of war time conflict and the distance from Minbar, was time delayed. Otherwise, the Star Riders and Moon Shields might have found their long, amicable relations permanently severed. After a lengthy meditation, he managed to reign in his temper before sending a very terse reply, informing Tyamer that the betrothal would be formalized the following evening by the ancient rite, and that Sorval would remain at his side thereafter as custom demanded.

It had not been an easy decision. Neroon had expected little if any opposition to his suit from Tyamer, especially if such an end had been the old man's object all along. His clan was older and more prestigious than that of the Moon Shields, and his spouse would hold considerable power. He had never anticipated such a violent and public refusal, and one which put his entire plan in jeopardy. The rules for courting someone of Sorval's rank were clear, however; Neroon could not approach him without his family's consent, much less arrange a betrothal. Unless, that was, he resorted to the ancient rite. It would give him a way around Tyamer's utter rejection of his suit, but did away with any hope of an easy out once the current situation was passed.

It had taken him some time to make the decision to go ahead. It was his natural caution, however, and not, as he would have expected after such a short acquaintance, because of any doubts of his affection for Sorval, that made him hesitate. Although the boy could not be Tallier, he nonetheless gave Neroon the same feeling of familiarity, warmth and trust that he had once known from his deceased partner, and had believed he would never find with another. He was not usually a superstitious man, but he could not help wondering if perhaps the small signs were Tallier's way of letting him known that this one had his approval. It would be an adjustment, allowing someone back into his life again after so long, but he was confident that the union could prove a happy one. He already felt more comfortable with Sorval than with many people he had known for decades--a happy occurrence since it now appeared likely that they would be together for some time. In any case, honor would not allow him to abandon his dra'ma to serious abuse if there was any way of preventing it.

Neroon did not see the message Tyamer sent to Sorval, but noticed that it had been deleted from the records and no reply had been sent. It seemed that his young fiancé did not much care for his father's choice of words, either. Relations were obviously strained between them; if not for Sorval's reaction to his proposal, Neroon would have assumed that he was only using the engagement to avoid an unwelcome recall. Sorval's enthusiasm also made contemplation of the betrothal ceremony more palatable. The event would be traumatic to a degree regardless of circumstances, but would prove easier for them both if some emotion was involved.

Marcus stared at the computer as if it had suddenly started using another language that he didn't understand. For a brief moment, he actually wondered if the dump was fading and taking his skill with the Minbari tongue with it, but then the screen coalesced again and he realized that his lapse had been due to shock. Shock and utter, paralyzing panic.

This simply couldn't be happening. Marcus read the short explanation again, but had to stop halfway through to put his head between his knees and concentrate on not passing out. Apparently God, wherever he lived, was Minbari, or else he certainly favored them a great deal more than humans--one human in particular. First Obsidian wouldn't work and steadfastly refused all Marcus' attempts to make it communicate with the Minbari system; then he was recalled to a planet he'd never seen by a man he'd never met, and only dodged that potential disaster by agreeing to a sham engagement; and now he found out that the engagement wasn't going to be a sham after all.

Marcus had been so overwhelmingly grateful to be offered a way out of his dire predicament that he hadn't hesitated an instant in accepting Neroon's offer. Of course, he had assumed that the engagement would be a lengthy one, as was common on Minbar, and that he would have plenty of time to finish his assignment and escape before it progressed very far. That hopeful notion had lasted until Durhan's terse announcement that he had agreed, reluctantly, to be Marcus' deliktha, and would speak to him about it in the morning. Marcus had been busy wrestling with Obsidian at the time, and had merely nodded at the viewer and thanked Durhan before signing off. Later, however, it had occurred to him that it would be a wise precaution to look up the unfamiliar term before their meeting, and the computer had obligingly offered him a brief, but devastating definition.

It seemed that, centuries before, the Minbari had had some peculiar customs. One involved a method of obtaining a marriage partner when his or her family refused the suit. Essentially, the rejected suitor would kidnap his intended and carry him off to a family stronghold. Then, in the presence of a witness of unimpeachable character, called a deliktha, the couple would declare their desire to be wed and, after a brief ceremony, would be unbreakably betrothed. Thereafter, the fiancé was considered part of the new family, and could not be reintegrated into his old one, even if later recaptured before the actual wedding. It had originally been intended to avoid allowing the frequent feuds between clans--at one time a serious problem--from preventing marriages between the ruling bloodlines. It also helped to derail long-term feuds, by insuring that there were blood ties between succeeding generations of two quarreling families.

The ritual was so engrained in tradition that even the establishment of the Gray Council, which effectively removed the need for it by providing a forum for resolving disputes that eluded the clans, had not removed it from law. It was seldom used, but was technically still legal. And Tyamer's refusal to allow the engagement to go ahead had forced Neroon to employ the ancient rite to get around the old man's objections.

Which meant, in Marcus' case, that he was buggered--quite literally. That insured that the engagement could not be broken since, by ancient Minbari law, all that was needed for a marriage was a declaration of intent before a witness and a sexual union. A large, formal ceremony usually followed the betrothal, normally after the two families had made up their differences or at least declared a truce, and everyone could be assembled without fear of bloodshed. But the betrothal ceremony was a marriage rite in and of itself; the later grand, public display was more for the prestige of the families involved than any legal necessity. And that was what had been scheduled for the next evening. Marcus wondered if he should just kill himself and save Neroon the trouble, because no matter how lucky he had been until now, there was no way he was going to be able to pull off a masquerade like that.

TBC


	4. Section 4

DISCLAIMER: Babylon 5 belongs to JMS. I'm just playing.

AUTHOR: Sarai

E-MAIL: Marcus/Neroon

WARNING: m/m slash, violence

RATING: R

SPOILERS: Seasons 3 and 4

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hi, we're getting there.

SUMMARY: What if they had met before?

TITLE: When it Alteration Finds

Chapter Eighteen

2261, Olare

Despite his genuine hatred for his attire, Marcus found it helpful as he made his way through the lower levels of Olare. Rennie had been right--no one noticed a slave, or if they did, they assumed he was on orders from his master and had a right to be there. It was almost like he was part of the furniture or one of the android units that did most of the manual labor on the station, and he needed that advantage. The strange Minbari he'd seen in the dining hall had a significant head start and wasn't wasting any time. Luckily, Minbari warriors weren't exactly regular sites on Olare, meaning that Marcus had little difficulty getting directions. The only problem was that he didn't like at all where they were taking him.

Olare had more than twenty levels and could hold at a pinch over 50,000 inhabitants. He doubted that it had been anywhere near that size under the Centauri, but the raiders had added to it over the years. The result was less than aesthetically pleasing--the gleaming central orb of the old Centauri base was now surrounded by radiating arms of inferior structures, making it look something like a lopsided spider. Normally, there were less than a tenth of the full compliment there, but this was a special occasion, which was why Rennie had thought of the disguise she had. Hundreds of additional slavers and thousands of pieces of living cargo had flooded into the station during the last few rotations, which might explain the ease of their entrance. Partere seemed to have invited every slaver in the business to some type of meeting, promising a big business opportunity for all of them at the end of the next rotation. He'd been cagey about exactly what that might be, but the safe passage guarantees and promises of rich rewards had brought in enough extra bodies that the station was bursting at the seams.

Marcus dodged the traffic expertly, used to making his way through Down Below where space was at a premium and corridors were often used as extra sleeping births by the destitute. He finally reached a claustrophobic hall smelling of urine and sickness, lined with rows of crowded slave pens on either side. These weren't the exotic rarities showcased in the dining hall, glittering in body paint and dressed in outrageous attire to act as ornaments on their master's arms. Instead, these run of the mill types had doubtless been captured in recent raids. Lacking unusual intellect or great beauty, they would be sold off for mine or agro workers at rock bottom prices, and, unless they managed to escape or be rescued soon, their lives were likely to be harsh. No reason to give them extra comforts.

Slavery was illegal in many areas, but the Centauri and Drazi still openly practiced it, along with a host of smaller worlds. And even in prohibited areas, there were those on outlying colonies with populations too small for the workload willing to risk a fine for extra help. Marcus remembered being a wide eyed five year old, peering around his father's legs at Arisia's spaceport, when a ship of slaves rescued by Earth Force after an attack on a Raider base docked for medical care. They hadn't looked like people, at least none that Marcus had ever seen. One boy about his own age weighed maybe half of his weight and was barely able to stand on his own. Marcus, after staring at him in horror for several minutes, had buried his face in his father's leg and cried uncontrollably. He'd been convinced his father meant to sell him off, and that he would soon end up in a similar condition, and it had taken hours for his parents to calm him down. Even then, the slaves' hollow eyes and gaunt faces had haunted his dreams for weeks. He had the feeling he was going to have a repeat of those nightmares after this.

A forest of pleading hands reached out to him as he fought his way through the containers of supplies that had been stacked in the passage's narrow width, cutting off what little air circulated down this far and blocking much of the light. As dim as the corridor was, it was possible to tell that each cell seemed to hold a different species, Narn, Drazi, Brackiri, Minbari . . . Marcus stopped suddenly near the end of the corridor, and slowly pivoted to look in the cage to his right. It was filled with Minbari prisoners, captured military, by the look of them. He goggled; that was something you didn't see everyday. Most were sitting in the filthy remains of their uniforms, resolutely ignoring him. One, the owner of the hand that had grabbed his tunic, however, was staring at him imperiously.

"My companion needs medical attention and will die if he does not have it! That would lower your profit, would it not, slaver?"

Marcus was about to ask her, for it was a young woman who had virtually demanded his aide, if it wasn't obvious by his attire that he was not a wealthy slaver, most of whom could at least afford trousers. Then he recognized her. It had been a long time, but those weeks on the Ingata had been burned onto his brain to the point that it took him only a second to recognize Neroon's one time aide. Her name escaped him, but it was undoubtedly the same woman, doubtless having achieved promotion by now only to be captured by raiders. Yet, in her crowded and filthy cell, looking nothing like her typical cool, perfect self, she still managed to be compelling. Marcus sighed; damn the Minbari anyway, but he couldn't leave her and the sick one to continue the chase. 

"What does he need?"

"Did you not hear? Your thugs beat him half to death, and there is nothing I can do for him here. He needs a doctor, at the very least!"

Marcus looked around, and luckily there did not seem to be any guards. Possibly because agro workers weren't worth enough to bother guarding, or perhaps because, for the next ten days, no one could get on or off Olare anyway. Even if someone managed to steal something valuable--like a cell full of highly qualified scientists and warriors-- where could they take it? It made guards rather superfluous. Marcus didn't understand what Minbari Warrior Caste officers were doing grouped in with illiterate slaves, probably captured from some rural colony only to be sold on to another just like it, but his was not to question why. He just had to get them out of there.

"Medical is on the other side of the station," Marcus recalled from his previous visit. "And even if I could get you there, no one would treat you unless your master approved. Where is he? Doesn't he know you need help?"

She uttered a very rude word in Minbari. "He is the one who ordered the torture! He will do nothing." She looked him up and down, obviously revising her first impression. "I thought you were one of his men; they're the only ones who come down here. Please, fetch us some medical supplies. We have a nurse here, but he can do little without something to work with."

Marcus sighed. If he did as she asked, assuming their captor was as vicious as she'd said, it would do them little good. If he let them out, however, and showed them a few of his old bolt holes from before, maybe they could stay out of the way until the rotation ended. How he'd get them off the station then he had no idea, but if he left them in there to die, they'd have no chance at all. Deal with one problem at a time, he thought, and set about hotwiring the cell door.

Fifteen minutes later, he was leading a band of twenty Minbari through the lower levels of Olare, praying nobody would see him and make a report to his "master." Avoiding Neroon was vying for top place on his to do list with finding the elusive Minbari again; in fact, he had to do the first until he could manage the second or he would likely be getting an up close view of the outside of Olare along with the rest of the space trash shortly.

"Stay here. I'll go to the kitchens and see what I can liberate, and I may know a place I can find some meds. If you leave, I won't be able to find you and I won't waste time looking. Do you understand?"

"Why are you helping us," a suspicious looking older man demanded. "You have no reason to risk anything; how do we know you aren't planning to betray us?"

Of course, Marcus thought in rising temper. The Minbari could be as compassionate to others as they wanted--when they felt like it--but naturally no one else could be expected to help anyone simply because it was the right thing to do. Here he'd given up an excellent lead to assist them, but had to be suspected of all kinds of ulterior motives anyway. "To whom," he demanded. "Your owner wouldn't appreciate my helping you out of that cell, and no other slaver would touch his goods even if they were told exactly where to find you. It would start a fight not only between them, but between all of their allies, too. No one is going to risk a blood bath over twenty slaves."

"Then why?" The man's gaze took in Marcus' revealing costume with a sneer. It was obvious that this one, at least, did not appreciate being rescued by someone he mistook for a pleasure slave.

Marcus had to almost literally bite his tongue to keep from saying what he thought. They were tired, starving and wretched, they didn't need him venting on them no matter how tempting it might be. "Just a lark," he replied, and didn't bother to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. 

He left them huddled together in a tunnel that had once been used as an escape route for the Centauri. Marcus had found it when he had been in trouble before and desperately needed a hiding place, mainly because he had known it would be there. The Centauri were paranoid by nature and, untrustworthy themselves, they assumed everyone else to be the same. As a result, they always insured that there were multiple ways out of any base they built, with most commanders putting in secret passages of their own that no one else knew about. He'd often wondered, after housing paranoid Centauri emperors for over a thousand years, why the central palace complex hadn't collapsed in on itself from the warren of tunnels probably cut underneath it. He doubted this one had ever been used, since, as far as he knew, Olare had never been taken. Since the Centauri hadn't been likely to leave design specs for the station lying around when they abandoned it, likely he  
along knew where it was. At least he hoped so.

Marcus was very thankful in the next hour that he had considerable training in infiltration, although he hadn't ever expected to use it to steal food and medicine from his own ship. But it was the only way to get the medical supplies without taking a huge risk, and he doubted that Neroon would be likely to look for him in the most obvious spot on Olare. Still, he didn't dare enter the landing bay in the usual way, but accessed it via a  
tube used for loading liquid cargo. Unlike the fuel lines, it was currently unattached to anything, and since it held nothing of value, was not patrolled. Marcus shimmied up the large, flexible structure, keeping his balance only because of the speed at which he was moving. He exited near the far wall and made his way to the Dagger, keeping watch all the time for a roving guard who might stop and question him, or worse, drag him off and lock him up until his master could be located. Slaves were not usually detained on Olare--again, where were they going to run? Wherever they were, it was usually assumed that   
they were on an errand for their masters or were simply lost, but it would be his luck to have an overzealous guard wonder why he was skulking around behind the cargo containers.

After a harrowing trip around the perimeter of the hangar, Marcus entered the ship via the cargo doors under its belly usually used for reprovisioning. Out of breath and nervous as a cat, he listened carefully after making it to the main hall, but there was no sound from within the small ship except for the hum of a few computers. He slunk into the galley as quietly as possible anyway, and threw food and containers of water into a large duffle bag. He didn't bother to pick and choose with the medicine, but simply dumped the whole first aid kit into the sack. Judging by the looks of the Minbari, they were going to need most of it.

He paused in the corridor once more, his heavy sack at his feet, and considered leaving Neroon a message. But what could he possibly say? That he was sorry for spying? He wasn't, and Neroon would know that. It had been war. He'd done his duty and, given the same set of circumstances, however much he might hate it, he would do it again. He could write that he hadn't meant for Neroon to find out the truth this way, but it was unlikely to help matters. He hadn't told him, and pleading that he'd feared for his life if he did wasn't likely to help his case now. If he'd really wanted Neroon to know, he could have come clean with a battalion of Garibaldi's security personnel around him, and Neroon would figure that out pretty quick. Should he say that hadn't been pretending, at least not after a while, to how he felt? That their time on the Ingata had meant something to him? In Neroon's position, Marcus knew he'd feel betrayed, guilty--for not seeing the spy literally right under his nose all those years ago--and very likely furious. He probably wouldn't even read any note, and even if he did, he'd never believe it. No, this was one time when there simply weren't any easy answers.

The trip back to the hidey hole was more wearing on his nerves than the trip out, primarily because the dinner festivities had ended and the corridors were crowded with merrymakers on their way back to their assigned quarters or ships. Marcus didn't fear being stopped, but he did worry about the delay. He didn't know how seriously the injured Minbari was hurt, and could only hope he would get back in time.

The mass of Minbari were still where he'd left them, not surprisingly. Whether they trusted him or not, there was no way out of their predicament at the moment. If any of them had ever heard of Olare, a safe bet considering its infamy, they knew there was nowhere to run.

"Here, I brought the whole med kit," Marcus began, handing the duffle bag to his old acquaintance. She didn't move to take it, however, but stood staring openmouthed at something beyond his left shoulder.

Marcus had time to have a horrible premonition before he was forcibly whirled around. It was with considerable chagrin but no surprise at all that he looked up into the face of an obviously enraged Neroon. He must have followed him from the Dagger; stupid not to have expected it. He glanced around, but there were only two exits--one was behind Neroon, and the other down a lengthy stretch of corridor in front of which the twenty injured Minbari were arrayed like a damn blocking a river. Great. Nice to know his luck was operating as usual.

Chapter Nineteen

2248, The Ingata

Durhan was not pleased. Marcus had figured that out when the usually composed sech had thrown a book across the room shortly after entering their quarters. It hit the wall hard and bounced onto the sofa, falling open to an elaborately decorated page. Books were precious commodities in an age in which none had been printed for centuries. Many were in museums, especially ones like this, which looked as if it had been copied and decorated by hand. Marcus automatically picked it up, glad to note that there did not appear to be any damage. He carefully sat it on a nearby table, eyeing Durhan nervously as he did so.

"I am surprised to see you evidence any reverence for tradition," Durhan said fiercely, throwing himself into a chair.

"We are upholding tradition," Neroon replied calmly. If he was upset by his friend's mood, it didn't show. Marcus edged around the angry sech and seated himself on the sofa near Neroon.

"Distorting, you mean," Durhan returned, pausing to glare at Marcus. "A pretty pair you make, members of two of our oldest houses, engaged in this farce! And dragging me in with you!"

"Hardly a farce," Neroon objected, pouring tea for their guest as if they were having a perfectly normal conversation. "We have every intention of honoring the rights."

"After a ten day! Have you gone quite mad? Neither of you is a commoner; your marriages are things of extreme importance to your castes, not something to be entered into on a whim!"

"You said you would assist."

"I said that to have a chance to talk some sense into you!" Durhan turned to Marcus beseechingly. "Sorval, surely you won't jeopardize your entire future, not to mention your clan's well being, on such a ridiculous notion."

"He is jeopardizing nothing, Durhan," Neroon answered for him, which was just as well as Marcus had no idea what they were talking about. It was his understanding that Durhan was there to go through the details of the engagement ceremony, over which he was supposed to preside. Apparently, he had some other agenda, however, probably another of those things Marcus would have understood if he were really Sorval. He repressed a sigh. This sort of thing was getting old.

"My family long ago realized they would get no heir from me," Neroon continued, "and alternatives have been endlessly debated. My successor will likely be one of three of my cousins, depending on circumstances hopefully many years in the future. As for Sorval, his direct line may end, true, but despite Tyamer's protestations, there are other candidates for leadership of the Moon Shields. The stability of the clan as a whole is not in danger, only that of Tyamer's family to continue in the dominant position."

"And you wonder that Tyamer denied you!" Durhan looked disgusted. "You should have thought more clearly."

"I did."

"You can say that, when you intend to do this . . . this insanity?"

Neroon sighed, and for the first time began to look weary. Marcus knew how many hours he had been putting into the refit, but up until now, they hadn't been apparent. "There are several choices before us, but as far as anyone outside this room is concerned, yes, I am going through with it."

"Elaborate."

"You know why I do not wish Sorval to return home, why it is out of the question." Marcus' interest suddenly revived. He knew why he didn't want to leave, but why Neroon would care whether he did or not had been a mystery. He had assumed it was something to do with wanting to help his career. Wasn't that what a mentor did? Naturally he'd want him to be present at the final battle; that's where medals were won, after all, not on a transport going the other way. He got the impression now, however, that that wasn't what they were talking about. Both men seemed awfully grim simply because of the chance that he'd lose out on a little glory.

"There must be another way," Durhan insisted. "This may deal with the current problem, but cause even more trouble in the future. For the both of you."

"Perhaps. That is why I am proposing two possible alternatives." Neroon turned to Marcus, and it was obvious that the Alyt's usual iron control was fracturing. His eyes, usually black mirrors that gave nothing away, were like dark stars, glittering with some violent emotion. Marcus swallowed nervously. What was wrong now? "I have thought long about this, Sorval. If your rank was less than it is, this would be much simpler, but we have to deal with circumstances as they are. I am willing to go through with the engagement, and later the marriage itself if you wish. But I am considerably older than you, and have already had a relationship that greatly satisfied me. Should you choose to bind yourself to me, I will do all in my power to please you, but it is possible you will be missing out on a future alliance that you would find more fulfilling. I must know your mind on this. You agreed to an engagement, but that was before I knew your father would oppose the union. The ancient rite is now our only option, but it will be very difficult to dissolve, should you wish to do so. As Durhan said, it will solve the immediate problem, but may create many more later."

"You spoke of another option?" Marcus wasn't sure what his reaction was supposed to be, but apparently he was taking things a bit too calmly, for both men were looking more worried by the second. In fact, Marcus didn't give a damn about long term consequences; the future was a concept that had narrowed for him to a couple of weeks, maximum. He just hoped there was a way out of this ancient right business before he ended up giving the game away in a particularly embarrassing fashion. Even assuming his disguise held up, how exactly did one make love like a Minbari? It hadn't been in the mission lectures, and what memories he could dredge up from Sorval were exclusively hetero in nature. In other words, as useless as most of the rest of the man's thoughts had been.

Neroon glanced at Durhan, then back to Marcus. "As you know, Sorval, in past centuries, the marriage of a clan leader was far more important to the clan's stability than it is today. The sundering of a couple often also meant the end of an important alliance that the marriage had sealed, and a restructuring of political coalitions as a result. Now we have the Grey Council to intervene if a succession dispute looks likely to result in bloodshed, but in the past, there was no such safety net. It came to be law, then, that there could be no separation or divorce among clan leaders. It was thought this would cut down on the violence, but in actuality, it often resulted in one unhappy partner trying to assassinate the other. Over time, loopholes were found in the laws to allow another solution."

"You are suggesting that I lie . . ."

Neroon cut off Durhan's outraged splutter before it could get going. "No, you are anticipating me. In any case, if such things were dishonorable, half our ancestry must be considered ignoble liars." He turned back to Marcus. "When there was a serious question about the durability of a proposed marriage, a precaution was often taken to give both parties a way out later if they chose. Simply put, some part of the ceremony would be left out or deliberately done inaccurately. If the marriage was a success, everyone simply forgot that fact, but if problems developed, a witness would come forward to challenge the validity of the union on that basis."

"So, you're suggesting we deliberately sabotage the ceremony."

"Yes. It would be impossible if Branmer was officiating, but since he has declined, Durhan will read the vows. No one will be surprised later if he realizes he made a mistake. He is not, after all, Religious Caste, and has not been trained in such things."

"Great!" Marcus was so relieved he almost collapsed. For a while there, he'd actually thought he was going to have to go through the whole ceremony, and with a witness no less! "So, when do we do this?"

"You are forgetting, young Sorval, that I have agreed to nothing!" Durhan was obviously still displeased, although Marcus couldn't imagine why. All he had to do was make a mistake, misread a paragraph out of that huge book or something. Now that the panic was over, Marcus was anxious to get on with it. He had a duty shift later that day and was hoping all this could be settled before then so he could work on Obsidian after he got off.

"It seems the best plan to me," Marcus said, concealing his annoyance. He hoped it wasn't going to take them all day to convince Durhan to play along. Sometimes, the Minbari sense of honor could be damned inconvenient.

"Don't you?" Durhan got up and began striding about the room, his short cape billowing out behind him like an exclamation point. "Well, allow me to enlighten you. I am not happy about dishonoring myself by lying, to the council no less, by stating that this is a valid engagement when I know perfectly well it is not. I was already displeased about being witness to the ancient ceremony--a barbaric tradition I have always felt--but under the circumstances reluctantly agreed. I had no idea when I did so that Neroon had not yet told you about having to use the old rite, nor that he had this subterfuge in mind. Now I am left with the choice of dishonor or dishonor--lying to the council or allowing you to be sent back into an abusive situation when I could have saved you." He dropped back into his chair. "Tell me again, Sorval, that you do not see a problem."

"What are you going to do?" Marcus could feel the panic rising again at the thought of Durhan balking. If he did, could anyone else be found to do this, or would he be sent away? And what abusive situation was he talking about? Marcus really wished the Minbari weren't so allergic to alcohol--he could have used a drink or three.

"I am open to ideas," Durhan said with some exasperation. "I was only told the full tale an hour ago, and must confess that my mind is still reeling. Perhaps we could put you on a very slow shuttle back to Minbar, instead one of the usual transports. Your father can demand your recall, but not dictate how it is done. The war may well be over by the time you arrive, and then we can sort out this . . . situation."

Marcus froze. All the giddy relief of the previous moments deserted him in a second; he could almost feel his blood turning to ice in his veins. One thought stood out clearly, however: he was not leaving. Not after everything he'd been through, not when he was so close to a solution. He swallowed to moisten his suddenly dry throat. "If you won't consider anything else, then we'll go through with the ceremony--the correct ceremony," he added, when Durhan looked about to protest.

"Sorval, be certain you understand." Neroon said urgently. "The engagement is binding--it cannot be broken if the ceremony if performed correctly. We will be less than married afterward, but more than engaged. You can choose to live apart from me, but you will always be bound to me, neither of us able to take a different spouse or to do a hundred other things, such as adopt children, without the other's permission. Once this is done, there is no changing your mind later--it is final. That is why it was almost considered a marriage in itself in the past. Be very sure of what you are saying before you agree."

"I am sure."

"This is ridiculous," Durhan broke in. Marcus really wished Neroon had left him out of this. If anyone had the right to blow up, it was him, not Durhan. "You have known each other for a handful of days! You cannot let yourself be . . . "

"I can do whatever I want," Marcus cut him off sharply. He was not going to allow Durhan's outraged sense of propriety to ruin everything. He might not like the solution, might, in fact, be terrified out of his mind about it, but at least he had a way to remain on the ship. "Neroon said he is willing to go through with the ceremony, as am I. All you have to do is officiate, and if there is nothing required that will dishonor you, I do not understand your objection."

"As witness, it is my duty to make the situation clear to the participants," Durhan huffed, a little taken aback by Marcus' tone.

"Which you have amply done," Neroon said dryly. "Will you act for us, my friend?"

Durhan dithered about some more, but at last agreed. He stomped out, muttering darkly to himself, a few minutes later. Now that the ceremony was set for that evening, Marcus decided he didn't feel very well. He'd anticipated many problems on this mission, but this hadn't been among them. He had no idea what he could do to prepare, and in any case, he had very little time. His duty shift started in less than two hours and, with the ship in its current condition, the chance of skiving off early was nill. By the time he got off, he'd have barely an hour before the ceremony began. No, he definitely didn't feel well.

Chapter Twenty

2248, The Ingata

Marcus assumed he could handle it. Hadn't he been through grueling training, first when he joined Earth Force, again when he was tapped for Intel and a third time when he was selected for this assignment? And hadn't the point of all that been to prepare him for any possible contingency? The physical trials had been tough, but it had been the mental ones that had really hurt, leaving his brain feeling like it had been scoured out with bleach and a wire sponge. He'd had so many Psy Corps shrinks poking through his cranium in the last few years that he'd begun to believe there was no area of his psyche that hadn't been examined, taken apart and shoved back into his stunned cranium. "Know thyself," an old teacher who liked to quote Socrates had been fond of saying, and Marcus had been under the delusion that, at least in that regard, he was ahead of the curve.

He had therefore gone to his duty shift with the assumption that, no matter what the upcoming ceremony was like, he would get through it. He hadn't expected to manage it with a great deal of grace, of course, considering the nature of the ordeal, but what was a little discomfort and embarrassment in return for what he was gaining? A way had been found for him to complete his mission, and that was what really counted, wasn't it?

Apparently not, at least as far as some heretofore unsuspected part of his brain was concerned. Marcus had remained cool and calm during his duty shift, where the frenetic activity surrounding him and his own lengthy to-do list had given him little chance to think. But as he approached Neroon's quarters, his stomach knotted and his palms started to sweat. He could feel the unusually heavy moisture sliding under the synthaskin with nowhere to go, trapped as surely as he was himself. He really wanted a chance to rinse off and relax for a few minutes with his real skin touching actual air for a change, but as soon as the door slid back to reveal the cabin's interior he realized he wasn't going to get it.

Neroon and Durhan were there and it looked like they'd been busy. Marcus hadn't known what to expect, but had rather thought Durhan might drag out his gaudy pillows and scented candles again. Instead, he found an almost gutted living room. The furniture had been carried off somewhere and even the comm center in the corner had been dismantled. Durhan had just finished rolling up the rug when Marcus came in and, after shooting him a sour look, trotted into the bedroom with it. Marcus watched with tired, uncomprehending eyes as the sech squeezed past what appeared to be the entire apartment's furnishings. That seemed a bit strange. Weren't they going to need the bedroom?

"Good, they did not keep you over. I instructed Rudan to be sure of that, as I have to be back on duty myself soon," Neroon said, striding forward with something in his hand that he slapped into Marcus' palm. "I would offer you a chance to rest before we begin, but time is short and with Branmer still unwell, I have a great many duties to attend to."

Marcus looked down at the gleaming pike Neroon had given him as Durhan reentered the room. It was a lovely piece of craftsmanship, but why had he been given it now? His next practice session wasn't scheduled until the following day. "All right!" The burly sech said briskly. "Take your places, and let's be done with this."

Neroon clapped Marcus on the shoulder, then turned and strode to the other side of the room. "In the presence of a witness of good character, Sech Durhan of the Night Walkers," he said briskly, "I, Neroon, son of Shi'el of the Star Riders, do place claim on Sorval, son of Tyanmer of the Moon Shields, in conformance with the Ancient Rites." The end of the short speech was punctuated by the sound of a pike being extended. Neroon went into a defensive crouch while Marcus simply stood there, blinking at him uncertainly.

"Er, I think I may have missed something," he offered while two sets of Minbari eyes regarded him impatiently.

"You have a weapon," Durhan barked. "Defend yourself and the honor of your house. Or will you simply roll over for him like a cheap Centauri tart?"

"That's enough," Neroon said, shooting his old friend an annoyed look. "The Rite is all but obsolete. Sorval may know little of it."

"With his rank?" Durhan snorted. "They absorb the old ways with their mother's milk!"

Neroon ignored this, returning his gaze to Marcus. "Tradition requires a token struggle for pride's sake," he explained. "Then I will take you and Durhan will finish the ceremony. It will be quickly done."

His tone was reassuring, but the predatory gleam in his eyes was not, a fact that caused Marcus' already tight stomach muscles to clench into a hard little knot. All day long he'd focused on the problem more than the solution, refusing to really think about what he'd committed to do. But watching Neroon eye him with undisguised interest, he felt his higher brain functions collapse into a tangled mess, allowing animal instinct to take over. That part of his mind had only one agenda—to survive. And it viewed the big warrior coming at him with a weapon in his hand only as a threat.

Marcus extended the denn'bok he'd been given and moved quickly aside, both to avoid Neroon's attack and to give himself room to maneuver. "It seems the boy has some pride after all," Durhan commented approvingly, but Marcus barely heard him. He was trying to figure out how to defend himself in the small, enclosed space of the cabin. It really wasn't big enough for a serious struggle, but he understood why the gym had been out of the question. He had a sudden image of himself sprawled on the floor of the gymnasium, being ridden by an enthusiastic Neroon, while Durhan shouted a critique from the sidelines as he did at practice. The thought was terrifying enough to lose Marcus what tenuous grasp he had left on common sense.

He panicked and abruptly forgot about defense. Instead, he lashed out with all his strength, catching Neroon a stunning blow to the head. It connected with the vulnerable area near the neck, where the heavy bone crest provided no padding. Neroon went down to one knee with a yelp of surprise and Marcus have him no time to regain his equilibrium. With a single swipe of the pike, he knocked the Minbari's leg out from under him, dropping him to the ground. Throwing himself on top of the larger man, he pressed the pike to Neroon's throat, slamming his head into the bare living room floor in the process.

"In the presence of a witness of good character, Sech Durhan of the Night Walkers, I, Sorval, son of Tyanmer of the Moon Shields, do place claim on Neroon, son of Shi'el of the Star Riders, in conformance with the Ancient Rites." Marcus had no idea where the words came from, but they flowed out of him as if someone else was speaking. Perhaps Sorvals's memories had come on line when his own brain stuttered under the strain. Or perhaps the utter terror he felt at having his initiation into the sexual world come in a rushed coupling under the powerful Minbari had something to do with it.

Neroon, whose windpipe was in danger of being squashed, said nothing, but the angry grunt that issued from his lips spoke volumes. Marcus didn't dare let him up, but choking the man to death wasn't a great plan, either. He looked helplessly at Durhan, whose shocked expression quickly gave way to one of intense amusement. "Well, you've done it now," he chortled. "You'd better finish what you started, young one, for I think it is safe to say you will get no other chance."

Marcus stared at Durhan for a second, then Neroon gave a massive heave that almost caused him to lose his grip. Marcus' intellect sorted itself out enough to warn him that Durhan had a point. If his only choice was to take or be taken, he damn well knew which he preferred. Neroon had done this before, so even without preparation, he was far less likely to be hurt. Not to mention that the synthaskin suit would come off far better on the giving rather than the receiving end.

After applying enough pressure to the choke hold to momentarily quiet his captive, he stared up at Durhan. "I don't have anything to use. I didn't expect—"

"Nor did I," Durhan said bluntly, shaking his head in disbelief. "I believe you will find something suitable in his left pocket, assuming you can get to it."

Marcus felt around until he located a small vial. He stared at it dubiously while Neroon thrashed about with surprising strength considering he probably couldn't breathe. Marcus knew the mechanics of what he was about to attempt, even if the finer points escaped him, but the little vial worried him. On the one hand, it would probably reduce the chance of serious injury to Neroon, but on the other, the Minbari had a far tougher epidermis than humans. Considering which appendage the liquid was soon to cover, Marcus sincerely hoped it was designed to be more gentle than the damn skin stripper they used.

He held the vial between his teeth while he slipped a hand around his captive to detach the heavy uniform trousers from their elaborate fastenings. Luckily he'd been wearing the same type of thing for almost two weeks or he'd have never managed it. As it was, it was a hell of a struggle, considering that he had to lean all his weight on the staff pinning Neroon's neck to the floor while the maniac under him tried his best to buck him off.

"I thought . . . this was only . . . supposed to be . . . a token resistance," Marcus gasped as he finally wrenched the damn fastenings open.

"Perhaps Neroon does not care for the idea of being known as your junior," Durhan suggested mildly. He had leaned against the wall with crossed arms and a patient look. Apparently, he'd figured out what Marcus had already realized—this was going to be neither quick nor easy. "It was not an issue with Tennier, of course," he added. "He was from a well-respected family, but had no pretense to high rank. And, of course, he was of the Star Riders, which simplified things immensely. You, on the other hand, will one day lead your own house, and precedence has to be established. Neroon assumed that you realized he intended you to take the junior position in the alliance between your clans." Durhan didn't bother to bite back a smirk as Marcus managed to yank the trousers down to Neroon's knees. "It appears you have other ideas."

The only idea Marcus had at the present was to avoid getting knocked on his arse long enough to finish this thing. Not that that seemed too likely even if he managed to retain his tenuous hold on the situation. His body had never felt less amorous. It was too busy battling stark terror at the thought of what would happen if Neroon got free.

Marcus had no sooner had the thought than Neroon suddenly went as limp as a flarn noodle. Marcus let up the pressure slightly in fear that he had cut off Neroon's air a little too long. It wasn't a smart move. The slight adjustment, coupled with having only one arm on the pike, was enough to give Neroon an advantage. The next thing Marcus knew, he was pinned under an angry member of the Warrior Caste who seemingly had no difficulties at all with Marcus' own fastenings.

"A first year ploy," Durhan chided as Marcus was systematically stripped despite his frantic struggles. "That's what comes of not going through the normal training program. I imagine your father never thought to teach you the simpler ruses, did he? Didn't think you'd be doing any back alley brawling, I suppose. You should keep in mind for the future, Sorval--the old methods are sometimes the best ones."

"Could you possibly manage NOT to lecture me right now?" Marcus gasped, as Neroon divested himself of the rest of his attire. If Durhan answered, Marcus never heard him, because it had become extremely apparent that the tussle which had wilted his own desire had had quite the opposite effect on his partner.

"I believe that the honor of your house is satisfied," Neroon informed him grimly. He located the small vial on the floor where it had been knocked in their struggle and poured the contents on his palm. He quickly covered himself, and even that perfunctory massage was enough to cause him to swell a bit larger. Which was, Marcus thought in amazement, completely absurd. His flesh didn't appear to agree with his brain's stunned assessment, however, and finally began to pay attention.

"That will never fit!" Marcus squeaked, trying to wriggle away from the heavier man.

"Let's find out," Neroon hissed, throwing Marcus' legs over his shoulders.

"Let's not." Marcus kicked the man in the head in the exact place his pike had caught him earlier. It was a nasty trick, but he was past caring. Rolling free of the momentarily stunned Minbari, Marcus turned and once more pinned the larger man. But the strength his initial panic had lent him was fading and he knew he wouldn't keep the advantage for long.

While he was desperately trying to think of a way out of this mess, his newly interested body discovered that it liked the sensation of pinning the larger man beneath him. Liked it a great deal, in fact. He found the crease of Neroon's lower back and followed it to its conclusion, marveling at the friction when he sank between the taut cheeks. Without thinking, he began working himself up and down that tight cleft, and the friction caused by the close proximity of their bodies and Neroon's renewed struggles was almost enough to make him finish then and there. He managed to hold back, assuming that the Minbari were sticklers enough to require actual penetration, but God, that felt amazing! It was hard to imagine anything being better than this. His brain was trying to argue that he wasn't supposed to be enjoying himself--that this was a necessity to complete his mission, nothing more. But his body wasn't listening and it surprised him by letting out a deeply satisfied groan.

"Oh, for Valen's sake!" Durhan's outraged tones echoed above his head. "Take him and be done with it!"

Marcus had almost forgotten that they had an observer, and his surprised start at Durhan's bellow gave Neroon enough leverage to buck him off yet again. Marcus scrambled for his pike, but it had rolled near the door and he knew he'd never reach it in time. He was right. Halfway through an undignified scuttle on hands and knees across the floor, he was abruptly dragged back and, before he even realized what was happening, impaled on an impossibly long, hard length.

Marcus found a use for Sorval's extensive knowledge of the Minbari expletive form, but it did him no good. Neroon's large hands were on either side of his hips, holding him in place as firmly as any vise, and there was nothing to do but take the pounding. Not that his traitorous body appeared to be trying. To Marcus' surprise, as soon as the initial pain of entry was over, he found himself pushing back to meet the hardness that was spearing him, urging it without words to go faster, stroke harder, pierce deeper. Neroon let out a satisfied grunt and obliged, to the point that they began to travel across the slick floor. Soon the elusive pike was within his grasp but by then Marcus couldn't have cared less.

"Have a care, or you'll spill out into the hallway!" Durhan yelled, running across the room to lock the door just before Marcus found his face squashed against it. He didn't care about that, either. Neroon's stamina was impressive, considering that Marcus himself had finished before they even reached the door, but he finally came in a rush that caused an exclamation both of pleasure and pain from Marcus. "Are you two QUITE finished?" Durhan inquired caustically. Marcus tried to get up enough energy to nod, but failed miserably. Neroon must have managed, however, for the next second Durhan was saying the rest of the ritual words needed to seal the bargain.

"Right, it's done," he said, slamming the ancient book shut. "Now would you two please move away from the door so that I may exit this house of carnality? SOME of us have work to do today." He looked down at Neroon, who had managed to pull Marcus aside without breaking contact, and suddenly burst out laughing. "I'll tell the bridge to expect you to be late."

TBC


End file.
